Corey guided him to an old brownstone on Grace Street, in the aptly-named flabellate Fan District downtown. Three stories high, the Roman Revival style home had about it a desperate air, as if it were an aged dowager clinging to some semblance of youth. The windows were rimmed with paint as dark as Corey’s eyeliner, and the porch sagged at one end in a perpetual frown. On either side, the neighboring houses crowded in like gossips spreading scandalous news. The street in front of the home was cobbled, lined with trees whose roots broke up the sidewalk into islands of concrete. As Will eased into a tight spot on the street, Corey pointed out a second floor window. “That’s me,” he said.
By the time Will had turned off the car, Corey was unbuckled and already climbing out. “I’ll just be a mi
