Chapter 12
The next morning, the rain is gone, and sun greets me when I step out of the market. After a sleepless night reacting to every strange sound, I find myself craving a change of scenery, some fresh air, and the presence of people.
The spring air lightens my mood, and my fear from last night feels like a strange and distant dream. It’s easier to console myself in the light of day, easier to think clearly about Maison Marteau.
The murder happened a long time ago.
Children go missing in every city.
No one was in the apartment last night.
No one but a silly cat who ended up sleeping next to me, her steady purr a comfort throughout the night.
And the reason I stopped at the market, to load up on food, treats, and toys for my new little friend. The sweet girl cat I’ve named Clairee.
Being surrounded by French words and names led my mind down a linguistic path, one that ended at Steel Magnolias. The female-led drama was my mother’s favorite movie, and a running soundtrack to most of my childhood.
I grew to love the movie too, but for different reasons. It was one of the few films we could simply watch—no running commentary, no teaching points. Just my mom and me on a lazy afternoon, laughing, crying, snacking.
And making memories.
There’s a sassiness in the cat that reminds me of my mother, a can’t-keep-me-down spirit of survival. And I think she’d approve of the name.
I believe she’d also approve of the horror script.
A tote bag hangs on my other arm, large enough to hold the bulky pages. By now, the paper is worn from being handled, a coffee stain blemishes the title page, and a yellow tab marks a particular scene.
All signs of deep-reading and preparation, so I know the story as if I wrote it myself. The screenplay is good. Really good. And as usual, Lin is on point.
Typical for most horror movies, the fear and tension are there. But it also has heart. An undercurrent of emotion threading through the drama. I find myself attached to my character. I root for her. I worry for her. One moment my heart is hammering in my chest, the next it’s pinching with empathy.
A film like this is a rare find, and I want the part more than ever. I don’t simply want it, I need it. The desire to play Claudia lights a fire in my veins, sparking a fast and furious whirl of ideas.
I’ve chosen a scene, so the next task is to make notes on the scene’s rhythm, paying attention to where I need extra emphasis. How does the dialogue affect my breathing? What are the dominant sounds? Where are the words that relay emotion and nouns that paint a picture?
This is where I’ll focus, the most compelling section. The lines that will show casting directors what I want them to see. My skill as an actor.
Not the nasty scandal nipping at my heels.
Coming to a stop at the corner, I check my phone to verify my location. The café I want to try sits on the next block. The perfect place for a working breakfast, with round wooden tables and minty-green walls.
Quintessential Parisian charm. Bright and cheery.
Unlike the apartment.
Picturing dark paneling and hidden stairs has me lifting my face to the brisk, clean wind. And that’s when I spot a familiar form.
My feet stutter to a halt. Why is she here?
Slipping behind a rack of postcards, I hunker down and peek out to the street.
It’s the woman who was watching Maison Marteau. I’m sure of it. She’s wearing her blonde hair down and without the ball cap, but the patch on her jacket gives her away.
She stands on the sidewalk, her head swinging back and forth, like she’s searching for something.
Did she follow me? Maybe lost me when I popped into the market?
She bounds into the street, crossing to this side, scanning the sidewalk as she walks. Then her eyes lock with mine. Recognition tightens her face, and she makes a beeline in my direction.
Dammit, dammit. Paparazzo. She has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
Did she get a good look at me? Or worse…did she get a picture?
The story in Hollywood is blowing up, and the press is hunting cast and crew who worked on The Last Wave. Gaffer, key grip, makeup artist. Even non-principal actors like me. Overnight, we all became tickets to fast cash.
But if my name is linked to a salacious scandal, my odds of landing the new role will plummet.
A tall man passes by, so I slide in front of him, rushing back the way I came and cutting down an alley.
The woman is nowhere in sight, but she’ll be rounding the corner any second. I need to get off the street.
A restaurant comes up on my left, so I slip inside. The door closes behind me, shutting out the din of the city.
The storefront is nothing but glass, so I move close to a partition and try to blend with shadows.
I don’t see the woman. Did I lose her?
“Voudriez-vous une table?” A mustached man is beside me. He holds a menu, brows raised in question.
“Sorry?”
He clears his throat and nods. “Would you like a table?”
“Uh…” Another glance out the window and I make up my mind. “Yes, please.”
It’s not the place I’d planned on, but it will have to do. After enough time has passed, I’ll head straight back to the apartment and lock myself inside.
He starts toward a table with a clear view of the sidewalk. If I can see out, someone else can see in.
“Do you have a table in the back?”
Another nod before he leads me to a far corner.
“Perfect,” I say. “Merci beaucoup.”
He sets down the menu and sweeps out an arm. “Someone will be with you soon.”
When he leaves, I pull out my phone. My first instinct is to text Lin and tell her about the woman.
But maybe I shouldn’t bother her with this. I’m sure she’s in bed. Besides, what could she do to help? I’m halfway around the globe in a sticky situation of my own making. She did all the work of getting me to Paris and booking a swanky apartment, giving me only two directives.
Keep your head down. And don’t disturb the family.
Only three days here and I’ve failed at both.
An older woman comes over and takes my order. I ask for a croque madame and a coffee with milk.
Minutes pass and my anxiety fades, so I lean back in the booth. I’m safe for now. The restaurant is almost empty, only a few people at other tables. Peaceful and quiet.
Which is why I hear sound rush in when the front door opens.
The man who greeted me speaks to someone in French, before coming back to where I’m seated. He brings the blonde woman with him.
Smiling, he speaks to her again and gestures to me, as if we’re two friends meeting for coffee.
I shrink down, but there’s nowhere to go. I’ve trapped myself in the back corner, and she’s blocking the only way out.
She walks over to my booth, no apology, no explanation. No pretending she didn’t chase me down the street.
At least she doesn’t sit, only stares at me. “My name is Alice Hughes, and I’d like to speak with you.”
Her tone of voice surprises me, somewhat stern and with a British accent. “No comment.”
A line of confusion settles in her brow. But then her expression flashes to one of understanding and she shakes her head. “You think I’m a reporter?”
I do a quick scan of her clothing. No camera in her hand or hanging from her shoulders.
“I still can’t talk to you.” Lowering my head, I slip on my sunglasses. “Please, go.”
“It’s about my sister,” she says.
This catches me off guard, but I don’t understand what she means. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your sister.”
“I still need to talk to you.” She slides into the opposite seat. “Because she used to live in your apartment.”