Chapter 1
The mansion stands in darkness by the time we arrive. Pulling to the curb, the cab stops outside of a wrought-iron gate—tall, solid, and topped by sharp spikes. The kind intended not only to protect, but to intimidate.
White mist floats over cobblestone streets, the weather wet, chilly, and moody, despite the fact it’s early April.
This time of year, I expected love-and-flowers-springtime Paris, not dark-and-gloomy-raindrops Paris.
But I’m not in a position to be choosy, just grateful I have a place to stay.
Somewhere quiet and private. Somewhere secret.
Because I’m here to disappear.
It’s only for a few weeks. That’s what my agent Lin assured me when she made the plans. The apartment is private, secure, and no one will look for you there. You can lie low until the drama dies down.
Not any kind of everyday drama, either, but the kind that taints anyone it touches.
Two days ago, I was living out my lifelong dream, having finally landed a major role in a movie of substance. After years of minor parts and character bits, I felt accomplished. Worthy of admiration. Gaining notice and respect from people in the business.
Now those same people are asking questions. Wary. Suspicious. And looking sideways at anyone involved with the project.
Closing my eyes, I fight off the nausea, the sick sense of ruin sitting heavy in my gut.
Only twenty-seven, and my career could be over.
At least I’ve got Lin on my side. As soon as the story broke, she flew into action. She used her Hollywood connections to find me a place to stay and handle my travel, then insisted I come to Paris.
All to protect me from what’s exploding back home—a nasty, finger-pointing, career-killing scandal.
And she doesn’t know the half of it.
“This is where you’re staying?” The cab driver’s words jar me. Beneath his accent, something sharpens his tone. I can’t be sure, but it sounds like concern.
He turns to me, his brow wrinkled, as if instead of a mansion, he’s brought me to the morgue.
“Maison Marteau?” I ask. Maybe I’m at the wrong address.
“Oui,” he says and frowns, gaze lingering on me a moment too long before sweeping back to the grand mansion. After a moment, his shoulders drop and he sighs. “Thirty-five euro.”
I have the fare and his tip ready, so I hand the money over.
“Merci.” With a shake of his head, he gets out and opens the trunk, mumbling in French the entire time.
I don’t understand his words or his reaction, and I’m too beat down to care. After traveling for over twenty hours, jet lag weighs heavy. My back aches and my clothes pinch, somehow tighter than when I put them on.
Outside, the air is a quick, cold slap, and I wish for a coat, but there was no time to go home for clothes. I flew straight from the movie set in Savannah, like the rest of the cast and crew. All of us scurrying away before the press showed up.
Ducking from the drizzle, I rub my arms and scan the area. Beside the mansion sits a dark open space, only leafy trees and lights in the fog. Maybe a park? A place to sit with coffee and read a book? A Parisian dream.
I imagine the photos I could take for social media—the Eiffel Tower, walks along the Seine, world-famous museums.
But no. There will be none of that. No identifying landmarks. No tagging a location. No hints to the world that I even exist.
Because no one can find out where I am.
Black bars impede my view of the mansion, but lights glow inside the massive building. Stunned by its size, I count one, two, three—no, four stories altogether, a row of dormer windows gracing the top.
The windows look tiny compared to the gargoyles, hunched and glaring on every corner. The stone sculptures squat along the roof—gaping jaws, curling tongues, demonic horns.
Their sinister faces raise bumps on my skin.
The cabbie brings my bags and sets them at my feet. “Merci,” I say, the French strange on my tongue.
He gives one sharp nod and climbs into the car.
As he drives away, I move to a keypad by the gate. Lin sent me the code in a text, so I check my phone and punch in the numbers. Four beeps, followed by a click and a soft slide of metal.
Easing the gate open, I enter, shut it just as gently, and inspect the place I’ll be living. The mansion stands strong, like a stone goliath. Making me feel especially small.
Subtle lamps highlight beige stone, ornate masonry on every surface. More scowling faces grace terraces and doors, mostly raptors, lions, and wolves.
All of them baring fangs.
In front of the main entrance, two sets of steps curve up like wings, leading to a set of heavy, wooden doors. And on one side a portico, the arched doorway framing darkness and the glistening spray of a fountain.
I can’t help staring. Luxury like this isn’t in my budget, and I only got this place through Lin’s connections. I don’t know who owed her a favor, but it must have been a big one.
The residence isn’t typical, even by Parisian standards. A h?tel particulier. Not a hotel, as the term suggests, but a private home and historic urban mansion, occupied by a single family.
Despite the opulence, there’s an emptiness about the place. A desolation.
A soft, rhythmic sound carries from somewhere nearby, coming from inside the gates. The light tapping of footsteps.
Tensing, I stand still and listen.
Maybe it’s the late hour or the foggy night, but a shiver of apprehension prickles my back.
I glance around but don’t see anyone, only covered walkways and entrances, all made of stone. An echo chamber.
The sound could have come from anywhere, so I listen again. Nothing but the murmur of distant cars.
A shudder shakes my body—from cold, exhaustion, my finely frayed nerves. The fog and stillness don’t help, reminding me of an old black-and-white movie. The kind with evil creatures lurking in shadow.
Or on the roof.
I ignore the looming gargoyles, chastising myself for being so jumpy. Sleep deprivation. That’s all. I just need to crawl into a nice, comfy bed.
Two wings extend from the main building, housing apartments at each end. Both are identical and have their own entrances. The one to my left glows softly, as if a lamp is burning in the interior.
But the one opposite—the one that’s mine—waits in darkness.
Around the corner, I should find the door and a key under the topiary. Their word. Not mine. No ordinary potted plant for these folks.
I don’t know who owns the apartment, and any communication with them must go through Lin. Including the basic information she passed on to me, details about where to go and how to get in. And a single rule.
Don’t disturb the family.
Which is why the clatter and clunk of my luggage makes me cringe, the sound echoing off the high walls.
I slow down, trying to be quiet as I follow a paved walkway from the courtyard.
I round the corner and pass under a giant tree, branches rattling in the wind overhead, clacking together like dried bones.
No light burns above the door, so I deposit my luggage on the stoop and turn on my phone’s flashlight. Kneeling, I tip the planter to one side and shine the light underneath. Nothing’s there. I tip it the other way.
Still no key.
No way to get inside.
Dread drags its teeth up my spine, then takes a cold bite between my shoulder blades. No, no, no.
Desperate, I pick up the pot, ignoring the sharp leaves jabbing my cheek. I set the topiary aside and scan the grainy stone with my light.
Nothing.
The key’s not here.
“This can’t be happening.” My arms fall to my sides, and I stare at the locked door. What am I supposed to do?
The thought of knocking on the main house’s door sends my system spiraling.
Don’t disturb the family.
I’ll call Lin. She’ll be able to—
Footsteps again, echoing through the night.
The same rhythmic sound as before, rising from the cobblestones.
Only this time it’s loud.
This time it’s close.
“Hello?”
No one answers.
But someone is here.
Panic ratchets, rising in my chest.
Whoever it is, they’re coming this way.
And all I can do is stand frozen as a dark shape rounds the corner.