My name is Greer Landry.
Greer. I know. A little old fashioned. But if there’s one thing we Southerners like, it’s our history. Or really anything old.
I’m an officer in the New Orleans PD. Been working here four years, after graduating with a BS in Criminology. A year ago I took a brief leave of absence to go through special training with my new partner, Molly, a cane corso my cousin Hunter gave me. It took us a mere six months to get certified (top of our class, of course) and we’ve been pounding the streets together ever since.
What to say about my cousin Hunter? He’s like the big brother every girl dreams of and I never had. He’s cool and smart and nice (at least to me) and he joined the army right out of high school. He never showed in interest in the military, but I don’t think he was given much of a choice. The day before his graduation I overheard an argument between Hunter and Uncle Hartley and Aunt Charlotte Allain. I couldn’t make out much of the words until Uncle Hartley yelled ‘trouble with the white council’ and Aunt Charlotte started sobbing about him leaving to fight the enemy in Europe. The next day he graduated and that night Uncle Hartley took him off to boot camp. I don’t know what the white council is, maybe some kind of HOA, but they must wield a lot of power, because Aunt Charlotte sure seemed scared. Which is weird, because Aunt Charlotte usually acts like she carries all the power in the universe in her little pinky. Maybe they were going to kick the Allains out of their house. And by house I mean estate-that-has-been-in-the-family-since-it-was-a-plantation. I would have been okay with that because there’s still my house, but I think Aunt Charlotte would rather die that step foot in there again, even though it has been in the family just as long. I don’t think she’s been back there since she married Uncle Hartley 30 years ago. Even when my mom died, she didn’t come help me pack up my things. She was back preparing my room at Greywood Manor, as if any one of the spare guest rooms wasn’t already fit for visiting royalty, let alone her thirteen-year-old orphaned niece.
That probably sounds bitter. Hmm. It’s possible. It’s possible I would rather have lived with my mom in a three bedroom bungalow than have her shot right in front of me and spend the next eight years trying to escape from the most refined, best manicured prison in the world. Which makes it sounds like they were mean to me or something, which is absolutely not the case. Uncle Hartley was hardly ever even there. He spends most of his time in Edinburgh for work. He tried to move the family there once when Hunter was still little, but Aunt Charlotte wasn’t willing to leave Greywood Manor. She said in Louisiana they were old money, but in Scotland they would just be colonial upstarts. Hunter was wonderful to me that first couple years, letting me hang out with him and his friends, taking me horseback riding and showing me all the secret passages in the manor. It was almost enough to make me forget how much I missed my mom. But then he joined the army and left me alone with Aunt Charlotte and Clarise.
What to say about my cousin Clarise? She is my antimatter. I cease to exist whenever I’m around her. She is the perfect southern belle, and Aunt Charlotte did her very best to chip off my rough edges and turn me into a paste replica. Whenever we’re together, Aunt Charlotte starts every other sentence with “Look what Clarise did!” while managing to be oblivious to whatever I may have done, good or bad. Clarise has taken her role of leading by example to heart and has managed to excel at everything she has ever tried, all of those things being perfectly respectable for a young lady of quality. While I have shown nothing but ingratitude by following in my mother’s footsteps and becoming a cop.
So here I am. Not the happiest life story ever, but certainly not a tragedy. I had a good mom who was a good sheriff. I spent more time doing homework at the station than I did in my home, and by the time I was twelve I was taking calls and helping on cases. Mom taught me how to shoot and how to read people, and I had every intention of being deputized for real as soon as I was old enough. Instead I went to live with her only family, my Aunt Charlotte, and suddenly had more dresses than I could ever want (One. Maybe.) and learned to sit with my ankles crossed. I finished school at Silverleaf Prep Academy, followed by a truly spectacular row where my aunt agreed to let me study criminology in college if I agreed to attend the debutante ball with Clarise our senior year.
They say a compromise is when neither party is happy. That was definitely a compromise.
Uncle Hartley came home to escort Clarise to the ball, and Hunter came home to be my escort. He had to leave again the next day, but that one night made it worth it. He told me he had a surprise for me, but I would have to be patient and wait a bit. Three years later a crate was delivered to my door and inside was my beautiful black brindle Molly. The letter Hunter sent with her said she was a cane corso, from Italy. She was trained to work with the polizia and had all of her documents and certificates to prove it. He said there was some crazy stuff out there and he would feel better if she was my partner, someone with ‘better than average senses.’ My captain wasn’t convinced by the paperwork, but apparently Hunter made a few phone calls, and in the end, we went through the training together and proved them all wrong.