I felt something tugging inside of me. As much as I thought of him as grown, he was just an eighteen-year-old boy who would have a boy’s plans and dreams.

Maybe he imagined running away to Mexico or sailing away from this hellhole.

It struck me how little I really knew about him.

As my anger faded, I reminded myself that what little I knew, I hated. Still, I found myself trudging forward to turn off the stove before the place caught fire.

I nibbled my lip. Where is he? What if my sketchbook was at Lionel’s? I didn’t see any of the phones here either.

After I turned off the burner, I heard yelling from the back. Not the TV?

Suddenly a harsh drumming pelted the tin roof. I gave a cry of surprise, but that noise drowned it out. “Just the rain,” I murmured to myself. “Drops on tin.”

Finally!

Water started beading along bulging seams in the ceiling, dripping down to the floor, over the couch. Jackson would have nowhere dry to sleep tonight.

I jumped when stomping sounds shook the house, as if someone was bounding up a back set of stairs. When a door slammed in the back, the connecting door creaked open.

Morbid curiosity drew me closer. One peek and I’ll slip out. . . .

On a stained mattress, a middle-aged woman lay sprawled unconscious, her long jet-black hair a tangled halo around her head. She was nearly indecent, her robe hiked high up her legs. A rosary with glinting onyx beads and a small gothic cross circled her neck.

Her arm hung over the side, an empty bottle of bourbon on the floor just beneath her fingertips. A plate of untouched scrambled eggs and toast sat atop a box crate by the bed.

Was that Ms. Deveaux?

A tall, sunburned man in wet overalls came into view. He started pacing alongside the bed, yelling at her unconscious form, gesturing with one fist and his own liquor bottle.

Was the man her husband? Her boyfriend?

I knew I needed to leave, but I was riveted to the spot, could no more look away than I could quit breathing.

Then I saw Jackson on the other side of the bed, pulling her robe closed. Shaking her shoulder, he urgently muttered, “Maman, reveille!”

She slurred something but didn’t move. The way Jackson gazed at her face, so protectively . . . I knew he’d cooked her that breakfast this morning.

When the drunk lumbered toward her, Jackson smacked the man’s arm away.

Both began yelling in Cajun French. Even with what I understood, I could barely follow. Jackson was trying to kick him out, telling him never to return?

The man reached for Ms. Deveaux again. Jackson blocked him once more. Then the two squared off at the foot of the bed. Their voices got louder and louder, bellows of rage as they circled each other.

Did the idiot not see that glint in Jackson’s eyes? The one promising pain?

Instead of heeding that warning, the man clutched the neck of his bottle, busting the bottom of it on the windowsill. Surprisingly fast, he attacked with the jagged end. Jackson warded off the blow with his forearm.

I saw bone before blood welled. I thrust the back of my hand against my mouth. Can’t imagine that pain!

But Jackson? He merely smiled. An animal baring its teeth.

At last, the drunk clambered back in fear. Too late. Jackson launched his big body forward, his fists flying.

A stream of blood spurted from the man’s mouth, then another, and still Jackson ruthlessly beat him. The strength in his towering frame was brutal, the wildness in his eyes . . .

Why couldn’t I run? Leave this sordid place behind?

Leave these horrific sounds behind—the angry rain on tin, the woman’s slurring, the drunk’s grunts as Jackson landed blow after blow.

Then . . . one last punch across the man’s jaw. I thought I heard bone crack.

The force of the blow sent the man twirling on one foot, drooling blood and teeth as he went down.

With a heartless laugh, Jackson sneered, “Bagasse.”

Cane pulp. Beaten to a literal pulp. I covered my ears with my forearms, fighting dizziness.

Now that the man had been defeated, Jackson’s wrath seemed to ebb. Until he slowly turned his head in my direction. His brows drew together in confusion. “Evangeline, what are you . . . ?”

He swept a glance around his home, as if seeing it through my eyes. As if seeing this hellhole for the first time.

Even after Jackson’s display of raw violence, I couldn’t stop myself from pitying him.

He must have seen it in my expression, because his face reddened with embarrassment. His confusion evaporated, that rage returning. His gaze was almost blank with it. “Why in the hell did you come here?” The tendons in his neck strained as he stalked toward me. “You tell me why you’re in my goddamned house!”

I could only gape as I retreated. Don’t turn your back on him, don’t look away. . . .

“A girl like you in the Basin? C’est ça coo-yôn! Bonne à rien! Good for nothing but getting yourself in trouble!” I’d never heard his accent so thick.

“I—I—”

“Wanted a look at how the other half lives? That it?”

I backed across the front threshold, almost to the porch steps. “I wanted the journal you stole!”

Lightning flashed, highlighting the lines of fury on his face. Thunder boomed instantly, shaking the house so hard the porch rattled. I cried out and swayed for balance.

“The journal with all your crazy drawings? You come to take me to task!” When Jackson reached for me with that injured arm, I recoiled, scrambling backward into the pounding rain.