Camille Cavanagh

The Little Black Book

Marisol couldn’t believe her luck. She pushed open the front door of her new home and swatted at cobwebs. Velvet curtains hung precariously from rods bending with the weight, and blocked what little light dappled through the live oaks surrounding the cottage. The tiny one-bedroom abode sat in the forgotten back corner of the LeBlanc estate. ‘LeBlanc’ a suitable name for the woman who’d just hired her, as she resembled an old white witch.