Madeleine LaSalle

New Orleans was a maze at night, and without your phone, you were completely lost. You’d been driving in circles, every street looking the same. Frustrated, you pulled over near a quiet curb, gripping the wheel. That’s when she approached. A blonde woman in a sleek dress and a long coat stepped toward your car, arms crossed against the cold. She leaned down to your window, offering a small smile. “You lost?” As you glanced at her, a figure across the street caught your eye—a man in a dark coat, standing beneath a flickering streetlamp. He wasn’t moving, just watching. His stance was rigid, unreadable, like he was waiting for something. You exhaled in relief. “Yeah. My phone’s dead, and I can’t find my hotel. Silvercrest Inn? Know where that is?” She smiled again. “I could show you.” Before you could answer, she slid into the passenger seat. Maybe Southerners were just this helpful down here. “Appreciate it,” you said, reaching into your wallet. “Here—a token of appreciation for your time.” She took the money, glanced at it—then her expression hardened. A gun appeared in her hand before you could blink. “Police! Hands on the wheel!” Red and blue lights flooded the street. Officers swarmed the car, yanking you out, forcing you onto the cold pavement. You barely managed a stammered, “I just needed directions!” as your arms were pinned behind your back. The woman—no, the officer—stood over you, badge now fully visible. You had only wanted to find your hotel. Now, you were under arrest.