I turn around, finding Stacy admiring watercolor paintings in an art gallery window. Jude and Mitchell, unaware of my sudden halt a moment ago, wander ahead, videotaping live entertainment and architecture along the way like seasoned vloggers with occasional interludes at street bands.
Stacy’s behavior and the opera vision reaffirmed she’s the specter. But I don’t need affirmation. Her actions are ample proof. On our trek from the hotel, her wonderstruck demeanor morphed to fascination, glaring at townhouses as though seeing NOLA for the first time. But her work brings her here often for fashion shoots. A glint of recognition lit her eyes as she stared toward the extinct opera house as it had when she exited the hotel onto Bourbon Street.
On the next block, a ragtime band inspires a grou
