Chapter 1

My sister called at 2 AM. That's when I knew something was really wrong.

Emily never called. We texted, sure, but actual phone calls? Those were reserved for emergencies. The last time she'd called me was three years ago when our dad died.

I fumbled for my phone in the dark, heart already racing.

"Emily?"

"Sarah." Her voice was shaking. "I need you. Now."

I sat up, suddenly wide awake. "What's wrong?"

"I can't explain on the phone. Can you come to New Orleans? Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? I have classes—"

"Please." She cut me off. "Life or death."

Emily didn't do drama. She was the practical one, the one who'd taken care of me after Mom and Dad's car accident. While I was crying through high school, she'd dropped out of her special school to learn massage therapy. Paid for my college with money she earned letting drunk tourists grope her during "therapeutic sessions."

So when Emily said life or death, I believed her.

"I'll catch the first flight out," I said.

"Thank you." Her voice cracked. "Sarah, I—"

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, adrenaline making my hands shake. What the hell was going on?

The next afternoon, I was standing outside Emily's apartment in the French Quarter. Mardi Gras was coming. The whole city felt like one big party waiting to explode.

I climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor, my carry-on banging against the walls.

Emily opened the door before I could knock.

"Sarah."

She pulled me into a hug. She'd gotten so thin. When did that happen?

"Come in. Marcus isn't here. He's driving."

Marcus. Her husband. The deaf Uber driver she'd married last year in what I'd privately thought was the saddest wedding ever. But Emily had smiled through the whole thing, so I'd kept my mouth shut.

The apartment was tiny. One room serving as bedroom and living room, a kitchen the size of a closet, and a bathroom I could barely turn around in. But it was obsessively neat. Emily had to keep things organized. When you're blind, clutter isn't just annoying—it's dangerous.

What caught my attention was the small altar in the corner. Candles, weird cloth bags, chicken bones arranged in patterns.

"Since when do you believe in this stuff?" I pointed at it.

Emily shrugged, taking off her sunglasses. Her eyes were cloudy white, unfocused. They'd been that way since birth. Retinal degeneration. Nothing the doctors could do.

"New Orleans changes you," she said.

I wanted to argue, but the tremor in her voice stopped me.

"Em, what's going on? You sounded terrified."

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight. For a long moment, she didn't speak.

"I'm in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Voodoo shit. Real voodoo, not the tourist crap."

I must have made a face because she laughed, but it wasn't happy.

"I know how it sounds. My rational professor sister is probably thinking I've lost it."

"I teach sign language, not astrophysics," I said. "But yeah, this sounds crazy."

"There's a mambo—a voodoo priestess—who says I owe her something. She's sending people to collect." Emily's hands twisted together. "They'll come here. In the next few days."

"Then call the police."

"And tell them what? That I'm being threatened by a witch?" She shook her head. "They'd laugh me out of the station."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Disappear. For three days." She turned toward me, those unseeing eyes somehow finding mine anyway. "But I need someone to be here. Pretending to be me."

My stomach dropped. "You want me to pretend to be you?"

"You're my twin. We look exactly alike. You just need to wear these." She pulled out a small case. Inside were white contact lenses. "They'll make your eyes look like mine."

"Emily, this is insane."

"I know." Her voice broke. "But I don't have anyone else. If they come and I'm just gone, they'll hunt me down. But if they think I'm here, living normally, they'll wait. Three days. Then this whole thing will be over."

I looked at the contacts, then at my sister. She was scared. Really scared. And I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen Emily afraid of anything.

She'd given up everything for me. Dropped out of school. Worked jobs that made her skin crawl. Never complained once.

I owed her.

"What if they figure out I'm not you?"

"They won't. As long as you act blind." She stood, grabbing a white cane from beside the door. "I'll teach you. It's not that hard."

The next hour was surreal. Emily showed me how to hold the cane, how to sweep it in front of me. How to turn my head toward sounds instead of looking at them. How to keep my eyes unfocused, staring at nothing.

"The most important thing," she said, gripping my shoulders, "never react to what you see. No matter what. Don't blink at sudden movements. Don't look at things. A blind person's world is sound and touch and smell."

"Em, you're scaring me."

"Good. You should be scared." She pressed the contacts into my hand. "These people don't fuck around."

She grabbed a small bag, already packed. "I have to go now. Before they get here."

"Wait—who are they? What do they look like?"

Emily paused at the door. "I don't know. I've never seen them, remember?"

It took me a second to get the joke. Then I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Be careful," she said. "And Sarah? Thank you."

Then she was gone, white cane tapping down the stairs, disappearing into the chaos of the Quarter.

I stood alone in her apartment, holding fake contacts and a white cane, wondering what the hell I'd agreed to.

My phone buzzed. Text from Emily: [Tomorrow morning. Mardi Gras parade for the blind community. Marcus will guide you.]