I pegged him as Containment. And even though I’d been helping Containment personnel all morning, there was something different about him. He was an unknown—and that scared me.
He walked toward the counter, smiled. “Jack Broussard,” he said, pulling out a black leather wallet that held his identification badge.
I glanced at it, nodded, while my stomach clenched with nerves. I didn’t think there was a reason for me to be nervous about being a Sensitive—not when we’d taken care of the evidence—but the fact that we’d taken care of the evidence was probably a problem. Still, getting riled up wasn’t going to help anything, so I made myself stay calm.
“Claire Connolly.”
He put away the wallet again, gaze catching the owl walking stick, still on the counter, still gearless. He ran a thumb over the brass. “This is nice.”
“Thanks. It’s broken at the moment, but I’ll have it fixed soon enough. Are you in the market?”
“Agents can’t afford antiques.”
“More’s the pity,” I said. “What can I help you with, Mr. Broussard?”
“Jack is fine,” he said “I’m just here to ask some questions—follow up with your interview about the wraith incident Sunday night. You were working at the store on War Night?”
I figured he wouldn’t have been in the store if he didn’t already know the answer to his question. But there was no point in making things difficult for myself. “Yeah. I was here until about six. I walked in the parade with my friends until about two, then came back to the store and saw the girl being attacked.”
He nodded, moved down a few feet to peer into a case that held mostly costume jewelry. “Your father owned this store, and your grandfather before him?”
“And my great-grandfather before him.”
“And now you run the store?”
Why is it your business? was what I wanted to say. But I kept my tone light, even though I didn’t like where this was going. “I always helped out. But when the war started, my dad started selling dry goods, supplies. I became more involved. And when he died, I took it over.”
Broussard nodded. “Are you aware, Ms. Connolly, that there were questions about your father?”
I blinked at him, not understanding the implication. “Questions about what?”
“About which side he was on.”
I snorted. “Which side? I think you’ve been reading the wrong records.”
“I take it you weren’t aware of your father’s paranormal activities?”
“My father wasn’t involved in any paranormal activities. He sold antiques, and when the war started, he sold supplies.” There was, of course, the little matter of the building’s insulation, but I was almost positive that wasn’t my father’s doing. An accident of war, of magic. But nothing he’d had a part in. If he’d had magic, or was close to someone who had, he’d have told me.
And even if he’d had a paranormal friend who’d insulated the building, there was absolutely no doubt about my father’s loyalties. Broussard was just trying to rile me up.
“That’s not the information we have.”
“Then your information is wrong.” I could hear my tone turn snappy but didn’t bother to change it. His question was ridiculous and insulting. “My family kept this neighborhood alive during the war. We helped the military get supplies before Containment or Materiel existed. We fed soldiers when convoys were late. We stocked MREs so civilians would have food. My father died because of his war injuries. You want to know which side he was on? He was on New Orleans’s side.”
He walked toward the counter, smiled. “Jack Broussard,” he said, pulling out a black leather wallet that held his identification badge.
I glanced at it, nodded, while my stomach clenched with nerves. I didn’t think there was a reason for me to be nervous about being a Sensitive—not when we’d taken care of the evidence—but the fact that we’d taken care of the evidence was probably a problem. Still, getting riled up wasn’t going to help anything, so I made myself stay calm.
“Claire Connolly.”
He put away the wallet again, gaze catching the owl walking stick, still on the counter, still gearless. He ran a thumb over the brass. “This is nice.”
“Thanks. It’s broken at the moment, but I’ll have it fixed soon enough. Are you in the market?”
“Agents can’t afford antiques.”
“More’s the pity,” I said. “What can I help you with, Mr. Broussard?”
“Jack is fine,” he said “I’m just here to ask some questions—follow up with your interview about the wraith incident Sunday night. You were working at the store on War Night?”
I figured he wouldn’t have been in the store if he didn’t already know the answer to his question. But there was no point in making things difficult for myself. “Yeah. I was here until about six. I walked in the parade with my friends until about two, then came back to the store and saw the girl being attacked.”
He nodded, moved down a few feet to peer into a case that held mostly costume jewelry. “Your father owned this store, and your grandfather before him?”
“And my great-grandfather before him.”
“And now you run the store?”
Why is it your business? was what I wanted to say. But I kept my tone light, even though I didn’t like where this was going. “I always helped out. But when the war started, my dad started selling dry goods, supplies. I became more involved. And when he died, I took it over.”
Broussard nodded. “Are you aware, Ms. Connolly, that there were questions about your father?”
I blinked at him, not understanding the implication. “Questions about what?”
“About which side he was on.”
I snorted. “Which side? I think you’ve been reading the wrong records.”
“I take it you weren’t aware of your father’s paranormal activities?”
“My father wasn’t involved in any paranormal activities. He sold antiques, and when the war started, he sold supplies.” There was, of course, the little matter of the building’s insulation, but I was almost positive that wasn’t my father’s doing. An accident of war, of magic. But nothing he’d had a part in. If he’d had magic, or was close to someone who had, he’d have told me.
And even if he’d had a paranormal friend who’d insulated the building, there was absolutely no doubt about my father’s loyalties. Broussard was just trying to rile me up.
“That’s not the information we have.”
“Then your information is wrong.” I could hear my tone turn snappy but didn’t bother to change it. His question was ridiculous and insulting. “My family kept this neighborhood alive during the war. We helped the military get supplies before Containment or Materiel existed. We fed soldiers when convoys were late. We stocked MREs so civilians would have food. My father died because of his war injuries. You want to know which side he was on? He was on New Orleans’s side.”
