Chapter 2: Catfish Queen's Trap

By the third month of selling catfish sandwiches in downtown Maple Heights, folks started calling me the "Catfish Queen." Didn’t take long for the name to stick.

The nickname stuck like honey on bread. Even the bankers and lawyers from uptown started coming by, drawn by curiosity and the scent of frying fish. I wore the title with a wink, letting it roll off my tongue when customers asked for my secret recipe.

A fresh perch, scaled and boned, my knife flashing with not a hint of hesitation.

The blade felt like an extension of my will—sharp, steady, never trembling. Some days, the rhythm of my work was the only thing that kept me upright.

In no time, I’d lay out a plate of fish slices, thin as ice on the river in February.

The slices glistened, almost translucent, catching the light like winter glass. Folks said I cut them so fine, you could read a love letter through them.

Then I’d pick up a slice and feed it to whoever offered the most or made the biggest fuss, flashing a sweet smile and asking, “Well, sir, how’s it taste?”

I’d lean in close, letting my Southern drawl linger, eyes sparkling with mischief. The boys would blush, stammering out compliments, half in love with the fish, half with the mystery I carried.

Because of that, all the rich boys from the Heights came crowding around to watch me work the knife.

They’d show up in pressed shirts and shiny shoes, pretending they just happened to be passing by. Some would bring flowers, others their best lines. It was all harmless fun—for them, anyway.

Some even tried to court me, but I always turned them down with a polite laugh.

I’d tell them, "Boys, you can’t catch a catfish queen with store-bought bait." They’d laugh, but none of them ever got close.

I was waiting for someone. Always was.

Someone whose shadow lingered at the edge of every crowd, whose name tasted bitter and sweet all at once.

Today, he finally showed up.

He stood out like a hawk among sparrows—tall, sharp-dressed, the very image of old-school charm, just past thirty—prime of a man’s life.

His shoes shone, his cufflinks caught the sun, and he carried himself with the easy confidence of someone who’d never been told no. The crowd parted for him without a word.

As usual, I fed him a slice: “Well, sir, how’s it taste?”

I held the slice just so, letting him see the careful work, the delicate edge. My voice was honeyed, my eyes never leaving his.

I could see real appreciation in his eyes as they lingered on my hand. He noticed, all right.

He studied my fingers, the way I moved, as if searching for a secret. For a moment, I thought he might see right through me.

But when he saw the butterfly tattoo by my right thumb, a flicker of regret crossed his face and he looked away.

His jaw tightened, and he shifted his gaze to the street, hiding something behind those pale blue eyes. The tattoo had done its work.

“Your knife work’s as smooth as a summer creek, and your salt’s finer than snow—such delicate hands for filleting fish.”

His words were soft, almost reverent, but there was an edge to them, like he was testing me.

“With hands this pretty, why’d you go and spoil them with a tattoo?”

He tried to keep his tone light, but I caught the hint of judgment, the way his gaze lingered on the ink.

I leaned in, whispering, “It’s a birthmark, sir. I had the butterfly inked to cover up a flaw.”

My breath warmed his cheek, the secret hanging in the air between us. I let my words linger, sweet and dangerous.

“Don’t you like it?”

My voice dropped, low and teasing. I watched his lips part, waiting for his answer.

As I spoke, my fingers brushed his lips, then his tongue, just for a second, before I pulled away. My heart hammered. I shouldn’t have, but I did.

The touch was fleeting, electric—a promise and a threat. I saw the pulse jump in his throat.

He swallowed, hard.

He tried to play it cool, but his eyes betrayed him. Desire flickered there, tangled up with guilt and something darker.

I smiled, all charm.

Inside, my heart beat steady and cold. On the outside, I was the perfect flirt—unbothered, untouchable.

I lied to him.

The truth sat heavy on my tongue, but I kept it locked away. Some secrets are too sharp to speak aloud.

Beside my right thumb, I used to have a sixth finger.

A tiny nub, barely noticeable unless you were looking. Back home, it marked me as special—and as cursed.

Three months ago, just so I could handle a knife right, I cut it off myself.

I did it in the dark, jaw clenched, no one around to hear me cry. Blood ran down my wrist, but I didn’t stop until the job was done.

All for one reason. To get close to this man—Harrison Whitaker.

The name tasted like ash. I’d practiced saying it without flinching, but it never got easier.

My daughter’s biological father.

The irony stung. Fate had a cruel sense of humor, bringing us together like this.

My last name is Chandler. No one ever bothered to use my first name. Back in the holler, folks just called me the Six-Fingered Curse.

I’d hear it whispered behind doors, see it scrawled on school desks. Sometimes, I wondered if I’d ever be anything else.

Simple, really. In our town, women with six fingers were seen as bad luck, but folks also said we were blessed—fertile enough to keep old families going.

Old men would spit and make the sign of the cross when they saw me. Old women would slip me candy, then warn their sons to keep away. It was a strange kind of fame.