The World Breaks Everyone

By Laura McNeill

Every day, I wake up certain of only three things:

I am responsible for my mother’s death.
My father has vanished.
Someone wants me dead.

I’m on the run. It’s me against the world. I cannot let it break me.

When sixteen-year-old Olivia Jacobs and her celebrity chef father are brutally attacked after his French Quarter restaurant opening, the shell-shocked Olivia finds herself on the run on the streets of New Orleans.

Who wants her dead? And why?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura McNeill
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005833190

Laura McNeill

Laura McNeil is a writer, web geek, travel enthusiast, and coffee drinker. In her former life, she was a television news anchor for CBS News affiliates in New York and Alabama. Laura holds a master’s degree in journalism from The Ohio State University and is completing a graduate program in interactive technology at the University of Alabama. When she’s not writing and doing homework, she enjoys running, yoga, and spending time at the beach. She lives in Mobile, AL with her family.   

Book preview

Chapter 1

Olivia ~ Friday

Olivia ran a single finger along the white marble, tracing the smooth-cut edges. She shivered against her windbreaker, causing the black material to rasp and rub. The air was cool and wet, a New Orleans damp that soaked the skin and soul.

Surrounded by silence, wrapped in a lush green space dotted by mausoleums and gravestones, Olivia knelt, protected by iron gates and sharp spires that towered over her head. The glow from the sky meandered through the branches of live oaks, threading though Spanish Moss, illuminating the letters and numbers carved in the marble. Simone Larroque Jacobs. Beloved mother, daughter, and wife. 1976-2015.

It seemed, to Olivia, a cheater’s way to sum up a life. In stone and words. Chiseled for permanence. She brushed away the damp, curled leaves from the base of the monument, finding a place to nestle the spray of violets. With its candy-sweet scent, the velvet-purple petals seemed to gaze up at the heavens.

The other small white blooms lay in the crook of her arm. She brought them for three neighboring vaults, in honor of the ancestors of her family who stood silent guard around her mother. Olivia brushed away debris before resting the flowers in place at each of the gravestones. She liked to think about her relatives being there when she was gone.

I’m leaving, Mama, Olivia whispered, her words carried away on the breeze. There. She had said it out loud. Confessed. The secret she had harbored in her heart for the last few months. Baja, she paused and reached for her backpack. The pull of the zipper, metal on metal, disrupted a cluster of doves, sending them skyward.

Olivia reached inside the canvas bag, between the changes of clothes. Her hand brushed the edge of a worn Tarot card—her mother’s favorite, the Nine of Cups. Seeming to rise out of the morning mist, a diviner outside Jackson Square had pressed the card into Simone’s hand years earlier. Her mother had initially dismissed the chance encounter—she wasn’t superstitious and didn’t embrace the occult. But soon after, with the card in her possession, enchanted things began to happen. She’d met Theo, given birth to Olivia, and they’d opened a little restaurant.

Olivia could still hear the lilt in her mother’s voice, explaining that she’d kept the card as a talisman, a good luck charm. The Nine of Cups, she reminded Olivia, meant that a person needed to count her blessings, live in the moment, and enjoy the good things that life has to offer. Her mother’s friends had loved the notion so much they had opened a shop with the same name.

Her throat caught, tightening, as she recalled the memory. How many times had she wanted to burn that card? Rip it into tiny pieces? Throw it into the churning waters of Lake Pontchartrain during a New Orleans tempest. In the end, though, she couldn’t part with one of the few tangible objects on earth she had left of her mother.

Olivia slid the card into a deep pocket of the backpack. Out of sight, out of mind. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t think about it now. Instead, she wiped at her eyes, now damp at the edges, took a breath, and peered inside for the tight roll of bills. It was there, where she’d left it, tucked near the bottom of the bag.

Olivia closed her eyes, clutched the backpack to her chest, and shivered. I’ve been saving up, she confessed. Gabe—he works for Dad—Gabe has a place where we can stay—someone he knows from his from high school. We’re leaving tonight.

For a few moments, Olivia lost herself, imagining herself on the Pacific coast, watching orcas, giant mantas, and humpback whales—the taste of salt air thick on her tongue, wind in her hair. She paused, cocking her head to listen. She’d give anything for a sign from her mother. Direction, guidance. A flash of light or burning bush. A feather pointing west. There was never an answer, but that wouldn’t stop her from looking.

Her grandmother, Victoria, would scoff at an attempt to reach through to the spirit world, and her father had buried his grief, placing every ounce of energy into launching his new restaurant. Like standing in the center of a carousel, Olivia watched the people in her life moving around her like painted horses on golden posts. Up, down, around, in circles; always just out of arm’s reach.

Olivia hadn’t meant for it to happen. But she would never, ever forgive herself. It had been a preteen prank—hiding the car keys. A way to catch her mother’s attention, get her to stay another five minutes. Now, years later, she could recall the urgency in Simone’s voice, the flush in her cheeks. In her nightmares, Olivia remembered how her hand shook as she pulled open kitchen drawers. Her mother collapsed a minute later, striking her head on the granite counter.

Horrified, Olivia shrieked in fear, fumbling for her phone to dial 9-1-1. By the time the ambulance arrived, her mother was incoherent, blood pooling in the strands of her golden hair. Olivia, hysterical and tear-streaked, couldn’t stop shaking. When her father arrived, shirt sweat-soaked from running, she couldn’t speak.

At the hospital, the physician conferred with them in hushed tones. Her mother had gone into shock from lack of insulin. She’d suffered a concussion. Olivia choked, swallowing tears. Her mother had needed those tiny glass insulin bottles from the pharmacy. And Olivia had stood in the way.

The doctors blamed her mother’s fragile condition, her insulin-dependent diabetes, the blood sugar that dipped and spiked as wildly as a theme-park rollercoaster. As they sat vigil by her mother’s bedside, the shame lodged in Olivia’s throat. Desperately, she urged out the words, carving an apology, thinking how to form the truth. She waited until it was too late.

Until her mother died, and the world stopped.

Chapter 2

Olivia ~ Friday

Olivia zipped the backpack and rose to her feet. As she brushed stray blades of grass off her jeans and hands, the white of her wrist, the tender place between palm and forearm caught her eye. She bit her lip and pulled the sleeves of her hoodie over the scars.

Olivia closed her eyes, feeling her wet lashes graze her cheeks. Some days, she still couldn’t believe it. The one person she loved most in the world was gone. Forever. And nothing would ever be the same.

Three years earlier, Olivia, previously the gregarious, athletic extrovert, slowly, steadily set fire to everything she loved, leaving a swath of charred, blackened earth in her wake. She stopped speaking and eating. She refused to leave her room. As best she could, she folded inside herself, trying to make herself smaller as the secret grew larger, threatening to break her.

She’d shocked her friends by resigning as debate team captain, then abruptly quit French club and refused to take part in dance team. Later, she stayed in bed for a week at the mention of volleyball practice, insisting she was too ill to play.

This, she knew, distressed her father the most. Theo had been her biggest fan, whooping from the sidelines and waving his navy and white Ursuline Lions shaker like a madman when the team went undefeated the year before.

Olivia felt like confetti left out in the rain, fragile and soaking-wet, a paper-thin afterthought; her former rainbow of colors bleeding into the pavement. She’d binge-watched 13 Reasons Why, absorbing Hannah Baker’s spiral into depression, the loss of her battle between light and darkness. In a particularly gripping scene, Hannah attempted to explain her depression. When she spoke, Olivia sat up and clutching her throat. Here's the scary thing: it looks like nothing . . . It feels like a deep, always blank, endless nothing.

The words resonated through Olivia, cutting through skin and bone, twisting and clutching at muscle and tendon, piercing a dark, hidden place beneath her heart. There, the truth, like a mirror, reflected Olivia’s empty soul.

Awed, shaken, and transfixed by the sight of Hannah’s death, Olivia made her decision. She could, she would, do the same.

Two evenings later, after waiting until she heard the click of the front door and the sound of the garage door opening, Olivia ran a deep, hot bath. Submerging herself in the steaming tub, fully clothed, she shivered despite the water’s warmth. Clenching her jaw, she reached her dripping fingers toward the razor, glinting in the silver moonlight outside the window, mocking her. Reminding Olivia that Theo wouldn’t miss her. Her father’s head was focused on the restaurant. His heart, like hers, had been snuffed out like a flame.

She drew a breath, picked up the blade, and pulled up her sleeve. As Olivia bore down on the pale skin just above her wrist, the raw pain seared her nerves. Panting hard, lips parted, she went numb as blood appeared, sliding in rivulets toward the water, tinging the pool around her pink.

Then, suddenly, her father was standing over her, larger than life, tie askew. He was shouting, wide-eyed, ripping off his shirt to bandage her arm. Olivia! Olivia! Theo had yanked her from the tub, clutching at her like a child cradling his favorite toy, broken into pieces by a hard-hearted bully. Olivia could make out her own name on his lips, see the strain in her father’s throat, but heard nothing but the hammering of her heart against her ribcage. Mercifully, she’d blacked out, waking days later in the hospital.

It was then that her grandmother launched a war. Olivia first overheard the hushed tones as she roused from a deep slumber. The thin white curtain, hanging from the ceiling, offered little protection from conversation. She could see three sets of legs—elegant hose and heels, jeans and loafers, traditional dress shoes and slacks. Olivia raised her head from the stiff pillow, straining to hear. She caught her grandmother’s strained voice insisting Olivia needed a female role model. Theo, his words stiff, argued in return that there was no bond closer than father and daughter.

Olivia cringed when Victoria shot back, hissing her words. Her father’s business, his celebrity, was all-consuming. How exactly, her grandmother inquired, would he make time for dance lessons, homework, and field trips?

As the arguments rose and fell like angry notes in a Bruckner symphony, a third voice joined the cacophony. Even the walls seemed to rise up, looming in the dark, urging on the swirling chaos. Then, she heard the word custody. Olivia stilled. They were fighting. Over her.

She’s a child. She needs you both, her grandfather interrupted. Unless there’s reason to suspect abuse or neglect, no court will rule against a biological parent.

Olivia sucked in a breath. Lawrence had always come to her rescue, scaring monsters from beneath her bed when she was little, cleaning up scrapes on her elbows and knees. And though Lawrence was Victoria’s second husband, he was the only grandfather she’d ever known.

As Victoria argued, Lawrence’s temper flared. Are we not family? Do we need more loss? he shouted.

An anguished cry pierced the air, causing the noise to stop.

Olivia clapped a trembling hand over her mouth, realizing the sound had come from deep inside her own body.

A nurse rushed in, chastising the three adults. With a wave of her hand, she banished Olivia’s family into the hallway, her father placing a hand on the curtain, pulling it back to offer an admonished glance of apology.

Olivia turned her head away, refusing to move, even as the nurse cooed and swept a hair back from her face. She squeezed her eyes tight. She missed her so much. A lone tear trickled down her cheek, Olivia wishing in despair she could join her mother.

But if death wouldn’t take her, she would find a way to leave. Olivia hugged her arms closer, squeezing herself smaller. She wasn’t frightened. Dying meant no more suffering.

In the weeks that followed, she could only guess it was her grandfather who softened the rift between Victoria and Theo. On the surface, her grandmother tried to accept defeat gracefully and make amends, apologizing to Olivia’s father. The damage had been done, though, and trust broken. The chasm that remained was irreparable.

Eventually, life returned to a stilted normal. A robotic functioning. Both grandparents, she knew, would be there tonight. Lawrence, out of love. Her grandmother, meanwhile, would soak up the society glamour and celebrity, putting aside any remaining animosity for a few hours.

Dad’s opening is tonight. Finally. You’d be really proud of him. Her father had put the project on hold indefinitely after her mother’s death. The grief had been too much. But he’d fought back and pressed on, pouring his heart into plans for the restaurant. It had been his dream, and Simone’s, too. An upscale establishment, destined to become a New Orleans staple, like Commander’s, Delmonico, or Irene’s. Her father had made it. Elements was finally a reality. Guest appearances on the Food Network and featured articles in Garden & Gun, Gourmet, and Southern Living had landed him a cookbook deal with a major book publisher. Experts deemed him one of New Orleans’ rising culinary stars.

Watching from the sidelines, Olivia found it exhilarating and overwhelming. Visits from culinary reporters, NPR interviews, new companies reaching out for endorsement deals.

Olivia was, by all rights, a celebrity by association. Her classmates, the teachers, even her principal at her school were star-struck by Theo’s sudden success. It wasn’t sudden, though, Olivia knew. She had read the articles and interviews; more than her father ever discussed in her presence. About his sad childhood, the rough neighborhood he grew up in, losing his parents as a teenager, and subsequently joining the Army so that he wouldn’t have to live on the streets.

He had fought fate and won, one reporter said. Theo Jacobs had arrived. And Olivia was so proud. She wanted her father to be happy. He’d battled back from his grief at losing Olivia’s mother. He’d filled his days, kept pushing forward, kept moving as if his life depended on it.

Olivia reached her hand to the marble marker, spreading her fingers wide. She allowed herself a hint of a smile. The opening will be amazing.

And it would be. As well as hectic and public. The eyes, the faces, all the talk and laughter. The media and cameras. Dozens of selfies posted on social media. The distractions, the hype and frenzy, made it the perfect night for an escape. She and Gabe would leave after the party.

As a gust of wet air made the tree branches bend overhead, Olivia shivered. Storm clouds, thick and ominous, threatened in the distance, held off by shards of silver sun straining through the mist.

She’d lingered longer than she’d planned. And Theo would worry.

I have to go. Dad will wonder where I am, she murmured. From the angle of shadow and light on the ground, she knew it was late afternoon.

There had been recent break-ins in the area, vandalism of local businesses, a hold-up at a nearby convenience store. Her father warned her daily of the dangers of being alone in the city, of wandering off, and of being in her own little world, ignoring the surrounding threats. It wasn’t like the aftermath of Katrina—the widespread looting and bloodshed—but Theo kept a SIG Sauer in the nightstand, and he’d drilled her on a family emergency plan in case the worst happened and they were separated. For a hurricane, they’d meet at her best friend Cecile’s house; her uncle’s if the levees burst again. If her father used the word cacher, or hide in Cajun French, it meant run—someone had a gun or weapons. It was code for don’t come home until I tell you to. He’d lectured so many times, Olivia could recite the speech in her sleep.

Though it was definitely overprotective and a bit melodramatic, Olivia didn’t dare roll her eyes or disobey. It was out of love. His parents had died violently. His wife was gone. He didn’t want to lose Olivia, too.

Most of all, and despite her plans, Olivia didn’t want to upset him or make him worry in the hours before this special night. She would sprint home, dress, and look presentable for her father. Despite everything that had happened, losing her mother, the drama with her grandmother, and although she was desperate to leave New Orleans behind, she owed her father this. It was his night. She loved him. And she hoped he would forgive her for running away. Eventually.

Leaving New Orleans meant keeping her promise to stay alive. That way, she wouldn’t suffocate on memories.

It was why she had to disappear.

Her mother, after all, was everywhere. In the fragrant blossoms that dripped in baskets over the city streets, in the lilting music that floated through the air, in the warm, fine mist that settled over the city’s rooftops in early morning.

Even though I’m going, I promise I’m not leaving you.

Still, at the thought, her torso constricted. Her pulse galloped. Olivia filled her lungs, inhaling so deeply that her ribs strained and protested. She fought it, holding the bubble of oxygen for as long as she could, imagining the atoms and molecules pinging against each other. Pain and pressure. Fighting dizziness. Head pounding. It was exhilarating and excruciating. Death was like a lover, calling her name.

But she’d promised Theo. She’d promised her stupid therapist, whom she’d quit seeing after he’d made a pass at her. And she’d promised her mother, right here in this same spot, almost two years ago, stitches and bandages still fresh, that she would try to find happiness. Somehow, somewhere.

Since then, the scars had faded, but the pain remained.

But she’d promised. And moving to Baja seemed the only way she could heal.

In a rush of exhale, Olivia released the air and returned to the living.

Chapter 3

Kate ~ Friday

The dark thoughts were back. Real and chilling. Like a bony finger tapping her on the shoulder.

Kate shivered. In one swift movement, she shrugged out of her soaked jacket, scattering an arc of raindrops on the floor like the outline of a crescent moon.

Instead of kneeling to wipe up the moisture, Kate turned and pressed both palms on the side table in front of the mirror. She gazed at her pale reflection. Deep brown eyes stared back, the flecks of gold dim from lack of rest and too much worry. It had been a hell of a week.

As a clinical psychologist, Kate fought for innocent victims. She delegated, advocated, and managed, helping each to regain their lives after violent trauma. She’d taken the helm at the crisis center only a year ago, and the demand hadn’t slowed for their services. New patients overflowed the clinic, with counselors working overtime. The court docket was jammed and their safe house was nearly full.

This afternoon, Kate was moments away from leaving the office when the new client, shell-shocked and tear-streaked, walked in. Every single counselor was busy. Theo would have to forgive her. Kate dropped her purse and wrap, grabbed an intake form, and brought the shaking girl a bent Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee before trying to coax out her story.

They spoke, in halting, awkward conversation about the damp weather and Mardi Gras, school exams at the girl’s Catholic high school. She was 16. And despite her torn uniform and scuffed leather shoes, the girl’s family was well off. But Kate knew better than anyone socioeconomic class didn’t segregate these victims. Rape was about opportunity, power, and control.

Noticing the girl was trembling, Kate offered to grab a blanket from the hall closet and refill her coffee. When she returned, balancing a steaming mug and a thick fleece throw, the girl reached for both gratefully. Over sips of the steaming drink, her client’s story unfolded bit by bit. The perpetrator was a former neighbor, a powerful man still obsessed with the teenager even after her family had moved to the other side of the city. He had found her. He was well-connected; moneyed. Someone to be feared.

The encounter, told in exacting detail, gave Kate chills. The hollow look, the bruises flowering purple and pink on the side of her neck, and the thick, reddened stripes of fingerprints tattooing her skin were all too familiar.

It took everything she had to stem her own emotion. To listen and nod, face smooth and concerned, hands folded. She fought the urge to wrap the girl in her arms, smooth the waved hair, whisper that it would be all right. Promise to protect her. Tell her that this would never happen again.

But as a clinician, it wouldn’t be the truth. She could help, she could fight, she could comfort and advise. But she couldn’t save everyone.

Hell, she had barely saved herself.

Now, turning away from the mirror, Kate closed her eyes. The room tilted. In an instant, she could feel thick, roped-muscle hands around her neck, gripping, choking tighter, forcing her lungs to scream for oxygen. In minutes, she was bathed in a full sweat, breathing in ragged gasps, strands of damp hair clinging to her neck and cheeks.

Kate sunk to the floor, pushing her body back with her feet until her spine touched the wall, drawing her arms tight around her knees. Kate’s life was settled; her whole world had changed.

Two years ago, she’d been working at the emergency room of Baylor University Medical Center as a part-time psychologist, an evaluator who consulted on patients with mental illness—everything from schizophrenia and psychoses to anxiety disorders and suicide attempts. There was the occasional inmate in need of a forensic evaluation, but what most intrigued her were the youngest victims, their innocence snuffed out as quickly as two fingers pressed to a glowing candlewick.

On break and exhausted from her last case, a seven-year-old boy who’d been assaulted by an older classmate, Kate was sipping cold coffee and combing through emails when her cell rang. It was her uncle, Alex Conner, from New Orleans, a wills and estates attorney, the only person Kate trusted to help her in her darkest hour. As she’d lost her mother to breast cancer and her father to Alzheimer’s, the lawyer was her only living relative.

Kate, he boomed.

She couldn’t help smiling. Uncle Alex.

Ready to come to the Big Easy? he asked, adding dramatic flourish to the city’s nickname.

Kate laughed. It was their routine. He asked every six months or so. Whenever he came across a new career opportunity, he was certain she’d fit perfectly. He’d cajole and persuade, enthusiastically selling the city on all of its merits, despite Kate’s repeated rejections.

I have found you the best job, he continued, sounding confident in his assumption.

Oh really? Kate bantered back, grinning. It was their game. And she’d be polite, entertain the thought of working in a hospital, or a clinic, or even in private practice with a friend of a friend. Then, she would turn it down, every time.

This time, though, her uncle’s offer rang true. Executive Director of the New Orleans Crisis Center. One of the board members was his client. He would make the introductions, they could talk informally over dinner, and she could see the city. No strings. If she hated it, he’d put her back on a plane to Houston the next day.

A week later, Kate landed at the Louis Armstrong airport, Alex meeting her at baggage claim with an enthusiastic bear hug. He played host and charming tour guide, injecting voodoo legend and local ghost folklore as they drove toward the city and the sun set over Lake Pontchartrain.

That evening over a sumptuous meal of black-pepper seared oysters, tagliatelle, and Sauternes’ poached pear at John Besh’s August restaurant, Kate and her uncle met Victoria Hightower and her husband, Lawrence. The center was Victoria’s pet project, she was president of the board.

The center was her first husband’s gift–a well-loved pediatrician and respected advocate for abused children. After he’d succumbed to lung cancer years earlier, she was determined to carry out his vision. He and Lawrence had been friends in medical school, and they reconnected at a fundraiser for the Crisis Center more than a decade ago.

After a friendly but firm gaze, Victoria leaned forward, placing one hand on the table. I want a leader—a creative thinker and passionate problem solver. I need an enthusiastic advocate who understands the difference this organization can make in this city.

Victoria’s impassioned speech, the promise of a regular schedule, her own office, and the chance to do good for so many was enough to sell Kate. She and Victoria talked well into the evening, over a bottle of wine, while the two men caught up on sports news and current events. When the clock struck midnight, and the foursome found themselves the last table in the restaurant, Kate knew her future was set.

It took Victoria less than forty-eight hours to make Kate a generous offer. It was more money than Kate had expected, enough to exist comfortably, even in a city like New Orleans, where the cost of living could be extravagant. Kate knew it was also time to leave Houston,