Chapter 1 #2
I want someone to care about me the way Fabien cares about Nicolette. He might be a criminal, but the man knows how to take care of a woman. The gentleman mob boss, if ever there was one.
I swallow the knot in my throat that threatens to choke me and signal to the waitress.
“We’ll talk about this when we get back,” Nicolette says in such a tone I’m surprised she didn’t add young lady to the end. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
“Alright,” I agree. “You kids have fun in Italy. I can’t wait to hear all about it, and don’t forget to bring me back something!” I’ve never outgrown my childish need for souvenirs.
“Of course not,” Nicolette says with a wink. “Love you!”
The lump grows again. “I love you, too,” I say with a sigh.
I sit at the table after they’re gone.
I eat the last of the crême br?lée and sip the last of the wine. I watch the sun sink beneath the roof of the restaurant.
When I stand and finally stretch my limbs, evening has fully descended.
The streets of Paris are typically well lit, but like most old European cities, some sections still hearken to days gone by—brick buildings, cobblestoned streets, streetlamps that have stood for decades.
God, I love Paris. If I could marry Paris, we’d elope.
The tourist guides all say that Paris is safe for a single woman.
Even the Eiffel Tower’s structure has been outfitted with hundreds of yellowish spotlights that not only highlight the landmark, but also provide visibility and safety for nighttime visitors.
Here in France, we have trains and buses and rental cars at the ready, and policemen aren’t far away if we need them.
I’m safe, I tell myself as I step outside the restaurant and into the cooler evening air. Across the street, a rowdy crowd of young adults chats and laughs, one gesturing wildly as if he’s telling a story. A pang hits me in the chest.
Heh. I must be hormonal. I’m not usually this emotional all over the place like this. What’s going on with me?
Am I… lonely?
Me, world traveler and student—correction, wealthy world traveler and grad student—who lives in the swankiest apartment and eats the best food and wears truly fabulous clothes… is lacking in something?
Maybe rumors float through school about my affiliation with the Gerards. Maybe Parisians are just a close-knit sort of people that don’t easily take on new friendships. Or maybe I just haven’t given it enough time, but I’m… well, sort of friendless here.
I shove my hands in my pockets and decide to walk instead of taking a cab. It’s a lovely night, and there are lots of people out here… and my overprotective sister and brother-in-law are on a flight to Italy and can’t stop me.
The sound of my footsteps on the hard sidewalk click clacks down the streets as I leave behind the noise of the city and walk toward our little apartment.
One of the reasons we got such a deal on this place was that it’s a good walk from our apartment to the other parts of the city where we find restaurants and shopping venues.
I pull out my phone on instinct and check the texts.
Nicolette:
Hey. Be safe, please. I know you’re not a kid but you’re my sister and the only one I’ve got!!
Cue a whole string of heart emojis.
Me:
I promise, I will not drink more than ten drinks at a time, will only smoke high-end pot, and have casual sex ONLY every other day, m’kay?
I can almost hear her sighing on the other end of the phone.
Nicolette:
Alright, sounds good. Love you, you big goof.
I smile and text her back.
Me:
Love you, too
I continue to walk, my head down, when a surprising brisk gust of air makes me shiver. I pull my jacket tighter around me and come to a sudden stop.
Wait.
There’s got to be some kind of a carnival or something happening this weekend, because the street looks different.
This is… unusual. Stalls are set up in various places, changing the appearance of landmarks. I’m all turned around. I look about me, trying to locate something I recognize, when I realize with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach…
I don’t know where I am.
My heart gives a little thump when I try to get a good idea of my location. I have to admit. This might’ve been a good time for me to… alright, fine, have a guard. Someone I could at least wave to and ask for a little directional help?
I glance back at my phone and notice it’s almost dead.
I stifle a groan. Nicolette would have my head.
I look around again. Maybe there’s someone nearby that can tell me where to go. A pub or a little corner store or a friendly old lady? But I walked myself right out of anything familiar or populated.
Well.
I’ll just have to go back the way I came.
I might be alone, but I’m safe.
I turn around and walk back in the general direction of where I started, but when I come to an intersection, I wonder. Is it left or straight?
Left. It has to be left. I think I remember that little house with the sign for the flats for rent.
I walk faster now. I’m dying to get home to our flat where my books wait. The newest Ilona Andrews book just came in the mail, and I can’t wait to dig in.
A feeling of dread grows in my belly as I don’t recognize anything nearby.
Where… am I?
None of this is familiar.
I’ve never seen this house. I’ve never seen this street. I don’t recognize the street names, and now that the sun’s set, I don’t even know what general direction I’m walking in.
Ahead of me, I hear voices and stifle a dry sob that surprises even myself. I didn’t know I was that wound up.
When I turn a corner, I almost cry in relief when I see the brilliant, welcoming glow of a streetlight in front of a pub, the door wide open, and about half a dozen men talking amongst themselves. When they see me, they stop talking for a minute.
I don’t usually have regrets. But right now? I am so regretting dying my hair highlighter pink. I stand out like a flag on a wide-open field.
Maybe I should’ve listened to my sister, who would’ve wanted to shake me for walking alone, at night, in Paris, which the tour guides might say is safe but it’s still a large, bustling city.
One of the men staring at me gives me a lewd grin that makes the little hairs on my neck stand up.
Ugh. I can imagine Fabien’s reaction. Funny how a few minutes ago I was eager for more independence, but right about now I’d give anything for my brother-in-law’s imposing presence and my sister’s fearlessness.
“Salut! C’est une très belle tenue que vous portez.”
Oh, how cliché to compliment me on my outfit.
But no, I am not playing this game.
So I do what any intelligent, self-aware woman would do in this situation. I smile and lie and pretend I don’t speak his language.
“Pardon. Je ne parle pas francais.”
I walk past them and turn a corner. I’m holding my breath.
But no one follows me.
Oh, thank God.
I breathe out in relief, only to find myself at the back of the pub. Trash barrels and empty boxes line the walls, and the air reeks of something I can’t identify and don’t want to. I wonder if I should go inside and try to find a phone, when I realize with a jolt of alarm… I’m not alone.
Fear knots in my stomach at the chilling scene in front of me. A woman, gagged and bound, in the hands of two big, terrifying, fully armed men. I stand motionless in horror at the sight.
At the pleading look in her eyes, panic explodes within me. She screams and begs against the gag, but only garbled sounds come out.
No.
I open my mouth to speak. To tell them to let her go, to do something, when one curses and the second turns his weapon toward me.
“Get out of here,” he snaps at me in French. “Get the fuck out.”
I can’t move. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m staring down the barrel of a pistol.
Let her go, I scream in my head. Let her go!
But I can’t talk.
“You have three seconds,” he growls. I don’t know what to do. I feel as if I’ve been frozen into ice by a magic wand. I hear the click of his gun.
I’m going to die. I’m not going to save her, and I’m going to die, right along with her.
I wish I’d told Nicolette I loved her before she left. Why didn’t I tell her I loved her?
“Drop your weapon!”
They’re looking over my shoulder. I’m afraid to even turn around.
My heart beats so fast I feel dizzy. I stifle a whimper.
The problem is, neither of the armed men make a move to drop their weapon. The woman begins to sob and shake as a uniformed officer, dressed in the trademark dark blue of la Police Nationale, steps around me with his weapon drawn.
It happens so fast I don’t have time to blink.
One of the men curses. The other pulls the trigger. The woman screams against her gag as the officer crumples to the ground.
My intuition screams at me.
Run.
A bullet pings and ricochets off a metal dumpster as I run as far away from here as I can get.
“Go get her!” one of the men shouts to the other. “Kill her!”
I have to think fast. He’ll expect me to keep running until he catches me.
I’m faster than the lumbering idiot chasing me, so when I turn a corner, I’m out of his line of sight.
I duck down a narrow passageway and into a doorway.
I flatten myself against the door, completely covered in shadow.
I hold my breath while he races past me. I wait until I hear no more footsteps.
Then I wait some more.
I stand in place until the night becomes an inky blanket of black velvet and my feet fall asleep.
My phone is dead. I have no idea where I am.
And I’ve just witnessed a murder.
I wish I could call my sister.
I want to cry.