Chapter 23 #2
I scanned the far bank, spotting the tell: a pair of white-haired men, each with a matching baguette under one arm, arguing politics or football over the rail.
Behind them, barely noticeable, was the girl with the crimson pixie cut and the rose tattoo on her throat.
Parker. She flicked her cigarette onto the cobbles, ground it out with her boot, and melted away before I could blink.
At the other end of the bridge, Jess and Wrecker sat at a terrace café, their chairs turned out to face the water.
They wore sunglasses, drank espresso, and tried not to look like the most dangerous men in France.
Every so often, Wrecker would make a show of fiddling with a tourist map or pointing at the spires of Saint-Germain, but I could feel their attention, sharp and heavy, as if they could will me through the next hour by force alone.
Gwen was somewhere nearby, blending into the scenery, casting her charms that would hopefully keep us safely obscured from anyone who would mean us harm.
Doc and Big Papa were the only ones truly hidden: parked in a battered white delivery van, engine idling, two blocks away.
They monitored the comms, waiting for a code word or the first sound of trouble.
I’d checked my phone three times since leaving the hotel, making sure the ringer was off and the battery full. It was the only thing I could control.
I walked slow, trying to get my breathing under control. The bag was heavier than I’d expected, the wooden slats of the easel biting into my collarbone. I clutched it harder, like it was a lifeline, and made my way down the steps to the lower dock.
There were already three painters set up at the edge, their canvases turned to catch the sunrise. The smell of turpentine was thick in the air, along with the sour tang of cheap cigarettes. I continued to make my way towards them.
My stomach tried to claw its way up my throat.
Brie looked nothing like I remembered. Of course I’d seen my mother yesterday.
I hadn’t noticed how much she had changed.
Where she used to stand tall and confident, her shoulders now hunched in a way I’d never seen before.
She wore a navy trench and a bright yellow scarf; her gloved hands moving with the energy of a bird about to launch itself into the sky.
Brie looked older—years older than the last photo I’d seen.
She wore her hair in a sassy inverted bob; the ends dyed indigo and the roots black, her eyeliner flicked up into sharp little cat’s eyes.
The sweater she wore was off-the-shoulder, revealing a silver glitter tank and a mess of necklaces, each more tangled than the last. Her leggings were so tight they looked painted on, and her boots were short, black, and scuffed.
She didn’t look like a kid anymore. She looked like someone you’d cross the street to avoid.
The plan was to wait. Let them get used to me, let the world settle into routine, and then make the approach. But as soon as I saw Brie, all the air went out of my lungs and I just stood there, frozen.
“Move,” I whispered to myself. “You have to move.”
A light, deliberate cough sounded a few feet away.
Gwen. She stood on the bridge above, dressed in a dove-gray overcoat, her white-blonde hair pulled back in a low bun.
Every so often, she’d lift her hand and make a subtle flick of her wrist—a sign for Wrecker and the others that she was keeping the spell up.
The veil. If it worked, it meant that anyone watching—Renault wolves, Steiner’s men, or the cops—wouldn’t see me as a threat.
But nothing could keep me invisible to my own mother.
I gathered my courage, shouldered the easel, and started down the path toward them.
My mother looked up when I was ten paces away. Her eyes flicked over me once, registering every detail, then returned to her canvas. Brie didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink. I couldn’t tell if she’d even noticed me.
I set the easel down at the next patch of stone, close enough to see what they were painting, but not so close as to spook them.
The cold seeped through the denim on my legs and bit into my knees.
I fumbled a pencil from the case and started to draw, hands shaking so bad my first line was more zigzag than curve.
My mom broke the silence. “You’re early.”
The words came out flat as a tabletop.
I looked up. “Didn’t want to miss the light,” I said.
She nodded, nothing more.
Brie said, “You’re not a morning person. You used to sleep until noon.”
Her voice was different, older, with a dry edge I didn’t recognize. She didn’t look at me when she said it, just kept staring at the river.
“That was before I knew what I was missing,” I managed.
Brie shrugged. “If you say so.”
My mother’s hands never stopped moving. “I’m glad you got out of Houston. And now you’re here.”
“Yes,” I said. “Now I’m here. For you.”
Nanette set the brush down, wiped her fingers on a rag, and finally turned to look at me. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, but her voice was steel. “Is it safe to talk here?”
I glanced up at the bridge, caught the tiniest nod from Gwen. “It’s as safe as we’ll get.”
Brie snorted. “Is this where you tell us to pack our bags and run? That the bad men are coming?”
Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit. “No,” I said. “This is where I tell you the bad men are already here.”
I saw a flicker of fear in her face, quickly covered by the old, stubborn set of her jaw.
Nanette shifted on her stool, angled her body to block Brie from anyone watching. “You’re not just visiting,” she said.
“No,” I answered.
I could hear the clink of porcelain from the café terrace, the faint whistle of a cyclist zipping down the dock, and the persistent, low-frequency hum of my own heart in my ears. I tried to look busy, filling the paper with random marks, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
Brie finally looked at me. Really looked. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re scared.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
For a second, I thought she might reach for me. Instead, she just wrapped her arms tighter around her knees, drawing them up to her chest. The bangles on her wrist jangled, too bright for the muted morning.
My mom spoke again, this time in a whisper. “Are they coming for you, or for us?”
“Both,” I said, and my voice didn’t crack.
Nanette’s jaw clenched. “How soon?”
“Soon,” I answered. “I have a team. Friends. We can get you out, but only if you want to go.”
Brie shot up from the stone, the motion so quick it startled the old painter next to us. “You have a team?” She repeated, all the sarcasm in the world packed into three words. “What are you, a spy now?”
I didn’t answer. There was no answer that would make sense.
She glared. “Mom doesn’t want to go. She likes it here. So do I. We’re not running for your drama.”
Nanette reached out, caught Brie’s wrist. “Enough,” she said, soft but deadly. “You know she wouldn’t have come if it weren’t real.”
Brie jerked away. “You always take her side.”
“Not her side,” my mom replied. “Our side.”
I saw the tears then, threatening to spill over. I wanted to wipe them away, but my hands felt like marble.
Brie sat back down, but her body was coiled tight, ready to bolt.
My mom looked at me, something like hope in her eyes. “We need to finish this painting. When we’re done, we’ll come with you.”
I swallowed hard. I knew what she meant. It wasn’t the art she cared about, not really. It was the last normal morning. The last time the three of us could pretend to be a family, before the world came for us again.
I looked up at the bridge and saw Gwen watching, her hands folded at her waist. I imagined Jess and Wrecker and the others, all waiting for the moment we stood up and walked away.
I bent over my paper and started to draw for real.
The lines steadied, and soon I lost myself in the familiar motions: the sweep of a jawline, the curve of a cheekbone, the dark slash of a brow.
I drew Brie first, then my mom, then the two of them together, side by side against the river.
I drew until the paper ran out and my knuckles ached.
When I looked up, the sun had climbed higher, turning the water from blue to molten gold.
Brie stared at the drawing, mouth open. “Is that supposed to be us?”
I nodded.
She rolled her eyes, but there was something softer in her voice. “You never drew me before.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
She looked away, but I saw her wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. I still saw the doubt in her eyes.