Moe Okoro, 52, forensic accountant, had not voluntarily attended a community event in 11 years. His divorce had turned him into a creature of rigid routine: 6am runs through Forsyth Park, 8am sharp at his downtown Savannah office, 7pm post-work beer at the same scuffed River Street dive bar, alone, work spread across the table even when he was off the clock. His fatal flaw was a refusal to bend rules, even the unspoken ones that kept people connected. He’d only shown up to the historic district’s annual spring crawfish boil because his 72 year old next door neighbor had banged on his door at 2pm holding a paper plate of hushpuppies, threatened to leave rotting crab shells on his porch if he hid inside another Saturday.
He was leaning against a gnarled loblolly pine at the edge of the park, beer in one hand, half a peeled crawfish in the other, when she crashed into him. She was carrying a tray piled high with butter-drenched corn cobs, her linen sundress dotted with Old Bay stains, dark hair stuck to the back of her neck with thick Southern humidity. A glob of garlic butter splattered across the front of his khaki work pants, the warmth seeping through the fabric fast enough to make him flinch.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” she said, stepping in so close he could smell coconut sunscreen and the sweet tea on her breath before he even looked up. She grabbed a crumpled paper napkin from her shorts pocket, dabbing at the stain before he could protest, her knuckles brushing his thigh once, twice, soft enough that he almost thought he imagined it. He recognized her immediately: Lila Mercer, 48, younger sister of the city councilman he’d spent the last nine months building an embezzlement case against. The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. He should step back. He should leave. Any interaction with her could get him pulled from the case, fired, blacklisted from the public contracting work that paid 70% of his bills.
He didn’t step back.
She glanced up at him through long, sweat-spiked lashes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I know who you are,” she said, quiet enough that the zydeco band playing 20 yards away swallowed the words before anyone nearby could hear. “I’ve seen you at the council meetings, staring daggers at my brother like you’re already counting the years he’s gonna spend in lockup.” She kept dabbing at the butter stain, her hand drifting a little lower each time, and Moe’s throat went dry. The air smelled like boiled seafood and cut grass, kids screaming as they chased each other with discarded crawfish claws, the low thrum of the accordion vibrating through the soles of his sneakers.
“I can’t talk to you,” he said, but his voice was weaker than he meant it to be. He’d spent months avoiding every member of the Mercer family, turning down their requests for meetings, ignoring their calls, but here she was, close enough that he could count the freckles across her nose, and he couldn’t make himself move.
“Good thing I don’t wanna talk about the case,” she said, though her next move said otherwise. She nodded at the overgrown tool shed tucked behind the park’s public restroom, no one loitering nearby, the side of it hidden from the crowd by a wall of bright pink azalea bushes. “I do have something to give you, though. If you’re not too scared to be seen with me for five minutes.”
He hesitated for half a second, then followed her. The grass was damp under his sneakers, the sound of the crowd fading as they rounded the corner of the shed, the sun-warmed wood pressing against his back when she stopped in front of him. She pulled a thick manila envelope from the tote bag slung over her shoulder, handing it to him, and when his fingers brushed hers, he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since before his divorce, sharp and bright and stupidly thrilling.
“Bank statements,” she said, her voice soft now, no teasing left. “I’ve had them for two years. He’s been skimming from the park renovation fund, the one that was supposed to fix the playgrounds for the kids in the west side. I couldn’t turn him in myself, not when my mom’s still sick and he’s paying her medical bills. But I saw you at the meeting last week, when you asked about the missing 1.2 million, and I knew you wouldn’t let him get away with it.”
He flipped through the first few pages, his chest tight. This was the last piece of evidence he needed, the thing that would lock the case up tight, make every 12 hour work day worth it. When he looked back up, she was leaning in, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and before he could think better of it, he kissed her. It was quick at first, tentative, then she fisted her hand in the collar of his button down, pulling him closer, the taste of sweet tea and citrus on her tongue, her other hand pressed to the back of his neck, warm and solid. The distant sound of the band drifted through the azaleas, and for a second, Moe forgot about the case, about the rules he’d lived by for a decade, about the risk of anyone seeing them.
She pulled back first, grinning, wiping a smudge of lipstick off the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “I don’t want anything from you, for the records,” she said, nodding at the envelope in his hand. “No special treatment, no thank you gifts. Just do your job. And if you’re not busy after this boil wraps up, I know a dive bar off River Street that serves the best fried okra in the city. I hear the guy who sits in the back booth every night with his laptop is pretty cute, even if he wears khakis to crawfish boils.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he hadn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years. He told her he’d be there at 9, and she squeezed his arm once before turning to walk back around the shed. He leaned against the wood for a minute, flipping through the envelope again, then looked up just in time to see her glance over her shoulder at him, lifting her beer in a quick, secret toast before she disappeared into the crowd.
