Chapter 2
Light from the courtyard hits at a new angle, casting the person in silhouette. A woman. She stops when she notices me, lifting her hand to one side of her head, then the other. Removing earbuds.
I release my breath in a rush, my heart kicking three times before it slows. She didn’t answer because she didn’t hear me.
“You must be Brooke,” she says, her French accent light and smooth. She hurries down the walk—petite, thin, angel-blonde hair. “Sorry, I forgot to put the key out. I hope you haven’t been waiting.”
“No,” I say, the last dregs of tension draining from my body. “Perfect timing, actually.”
“Oh, good.” She puts a hand to her chest as if she’s as relieved as I am. “My aunt called from California earlier and asked me to leave it for you. It’s her place,” she adds, jutting her chin toward the building.
Closing a hand around her earbuds, she shoves them into a pocket and lifts her other hand. A key dangles. “Since I’m here, why don’t I give you a tour?”
Before I can answer, she grabs one of my bags, steps around me, and unlocks the door. She leans in and lights flicker on around us.
In the light, I can tell she’s young, maybe late teens or early twenties. She wears a short ivory dress with boots—stylish and chic but with a waifish vulnerability. Young, friendly, energetic.
And not at all what I expected from the family.
“So, you are here on vacation?” she asks, stepping back to let me in.
“Yes.” I press my lips together, hoping this is the last of her questions.
The last time I’ll need to lie.
The thought of being recognized used to thrill me. It was a goal, a daydream, to have someone stop me on the street or come over at a restaurant, tell me they saw me in a movie. And remembered me.
But since the movie fell apart, I keep my head down and wear sunglasses.
Either the young woman doesn’t know who I am, or she’s too polite to bring it up. “You’ve come to the perfect city for a vacation, so bienvenue. Welcome,” she clarifies in English. “I’m Luci.” She spreads her arms and spins. “And this is Maison Marteau.”
Her game-show exuberance lifts my mood. More at ease, I pull my suitcase through the small foyer to an entrance hall.
I cross the parquet floors, my head spinning with wonder. Reds and wood tones dominate the décor, heavier and more old-world than the pristine white of so many Parisian homes.
A grandfather clock ticks away time in one corner. In another, an antique globe rests on a stand. A lavish staircase, a grand piano. Every corner holds proof of wealth. The air even smells rich—clean but with the slightest hint of something floral.
Mom would love this place.
Mom.
The thought of her is a bubble that fills my chest.
Then bursts.
Grief seeps into the space left behind. I can’t call my mother and tell her about the mansion. I can’t send her pictures of the opulent rooms. Not anymore.
Not since November.
I squeeze the suitcase handle until my fingers sting. “The apartment is bigger than I expected.” My voice comes out as a whisper, strained by the punch of emotion and bittersweet memories.
But Luci doesn’t notice my distraction as she points to a doorway. “The kitchen and dining area are through there. And over here…” Switching directions, she passes me and walks toward the curving staircase.
I’m right behind her when she stops by the wainscoted walls and puts her hand on the dark wood. “This used to open into a main hallway, but my grandfather closed off the ends of each wing. He wanted separate living spaces for more distant relations. The hallway in back is the same.”
Now I can make out two floor-to-ceiling panels that blend with the walls, and I spot the handles. “Oh, doors?” I push down on the brass levers.
A small wrinkle forms between Luci’s brows. “Don’t worry. They lock on both sides.”
“Sorry,” I say, my default method for handling conflict. Smile and apologize, filling my voice with a people-pleasing tone. An instinct hard-wired at an early age.
Followed by a compliment to smooth things over. “Your English is perfect, by the way.”
“Merci.” She beams, pleased by the praise. “English is a Marteau family requirement. We’re practically taught from birth.”
She studies me from head to toe. “And I love your brown hair and blue eyes. Such an American combination.” She winks and tugs lightly on my hair, making her seem younger than I’d thought.
She picks up my bag again and points up the steps. “We’ll go this way. The hidden stairs are too narrow.”
“Hidden stairs?” I already feel unbalanced by the connecting doors—vulnerable and exposed—despite the assurance of locks.
“An old servant stairwell,” Luci says.
The staircase we’re on now is the opposite of narrow, and certainly not built for servants. Wide steps and ornate railing, with oil paintings adorning the walls. Grim-faced portraits of people who must be Marteau ancestors.
The clothing and style of the paintings suggest the 1900s, but the colors are deep and moody. Midnight blue, blood red, funeral black. The faces glower down at me, stares piercing and full of disdain.
We reach the second floor, and Luci points out another set of the tall, connecting doors.
“My quarters are on the other side, so if you need anything, come here to knock.” She whirls with her arm extended.
“In front we have a bedroom and un petit salon—sorry, I mean a small salon facing the courtyard.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I love hearing the French. I only know some basic words, how to thank someone and how to ask for the toilet.”
She rewards me with a light laugh. “You’ll never have to go far for one of those. You’ll find en suite bathrooms in every chamber. One here, one in back, and two on the top floor.”
“Four bedrooms to choose from?” I stare up at the plaster ceiling, imagining yet another level. This place is as big as a New York brownstone.
“Yes, but only three are available. One is being used for storage.”
She leads me toward the back, stopping to tap on a smaller door. “The hidden stairs are here, a shortcut to the other floors.”
She pushes on a wall panel, and a door springs open to reveal a stairway—dim and musty, a cobweb string hanging in the air.
“The steps also lead down to the basement, but the door at the bottom is double-locked. I doubt you’ll want to go down there, anyway.
It’s cold and damp and smells funny.” She curls her nose. “Gives me a headache.”
I imagine a basement the size of this mansion, the endless dark. “That’s not a problem.”
After peeking into the first bedroom, I move to the one in the back corner. Ambient light outside reveals two windows, one facing the street and one with a view of the park, lampposts glowing through the trees.
“That one is my favorite.” Luci watches from a distance.
Flipping on the light reveals a space that’s much brighter than the rest of the apartment, with embossed wallpaper the color of ivory. The light shade gentles the space, a feminine quality to balance the heavy furniture.
“I’ll take this one,” I say.
“Good choice.” Luci hovers near the balustrade as if she’s ready to go back downstairs. “You must be tired, so I’ll leave you to get settled.”
She can’t know what an understatement that is. I’m more than ready to be done with this day. Actually, the last two days. They’ve been one long, continuous blur, filled with shock and sadness and running and hiding.
But I stifle a yawn and join her for the walk downstairs. Following her to the door, I listen as she reels off local cafés. I try to grasp one or two, but the French names sift right through my weary head.
“Oh, and this is yours.” She hands me the key. “I almost forgot.”
“Thanks again for letting me in.”
“Bien s?r.” With a whirl, she turns on her heels and opens the door.
Then she jerks to a stop.
“Ric.” She almost spits the name, her jaw clenching. “Why are you here?”
A man stands outside smoking a cigarette—casually facing the door as if he’s been waiting. His slicked-back hair is dark, almost black. Like his eyes. In the low light, they’re deep as pitch. Lifeless and empty.
Luci hurries down the steps. “Let’s go,” she tells him, looping her arm through his.
With his unnerving stare locked on me, he responds to Luci in French. I might not understand what he’s saying, but the look he gives me exists in every language.
A dirty smirk.
One that rakes over me from head to toe and leaves an invisible trail of slime.
I keep a mask of calm in place, refusing to give him any reaction as Luci pulls on his arm.
He doesn’t move. Only stares.
Luci jerks harder, finally dragging him away. She talks to him in a low mumble that sounds scolding. But she’s all smiles again when she tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Good night, Brooke.”
“Good night.” As I watch them walk away, I imagine the doors dividing my apartment from the rest of the house. I imagine Ric standing on the other side.
Testing the lock.
As if he heard my thoughts, he pulls free of Luci’s grip. Facing me, he walks slowly backward, giving me that slimy smirk again. “Sleep well, jolie fille.”
A cringe skitters over my shoulders. Because those words I understand.
Pretty girl.
He gives me a wink, and my stomach twists.
Easing back inside, I shut the door. And turn the deadbolt with a solid thunk.