Chapter 29
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
It doesn’t take me long to figure out which hotel Kat is staying in.
Her cover being rich kid on a gap year, and the ISA’s usual penchant for putting their favorite agents up in swanky places when it suits, led me to the best hotel in Calais.
Chateau De Cocove.
Far enough outside of town to be removed from the public eye, but with enough rooms that someone passing through is otherwise unremarkable.
Graham’s acquired enough money for what feels like a year—via methods that he continues to swear I’d want to have plausible deniability about—so we have no trouble finding a cab.
“Do you even know how many years of French I took?” I huff, crossing my arms. “In order to pass the class, we had to successfully immerse ourselves in a French village for a week. At sixteen!”
We’re standing inside our motel room, occasionally peeking through the blinds to watch for our taxi. And we’ve been killing time by arguing about how we’ll get Kat’s hotel room number.
Graham lifts a shoulder. “My family was French. That is immersion.”
“Yeah, right.” I wave a hand at him. “Except you left for a boarding school in England, and now you sound about as French as a Ford truck salesman.”
“Tu es aga?ant,” he mutters.
“Tu l'es aussi.”
Graham makes a sound of frustration in his throat. “See, there.”
“What?” I snap.
“You’re so rigid.”
My eyes flick to the ceiling. “You certainly know how to speak to a woman.”
The challenge that suddenly blazes in his stare makes me certain I’m about to regret saying that. He advances on me, and I’m stuck under his gaze like it’s a tractor beam, stumbling in retreat until my back hits the wall.
“You need to breathe.” Graham’s voice dips impossibly lower, the words fanning across my neck.
His fingers find their way to my jaw. The other hand braces against the wall beside my head.
I could swear he glances at my lips. Each rise of his chest wafts his cologne close enough that I worry I’ll never forget it.
At present, I’m more concerned with his eyes, raking along my profile with flecks of gold like sunlight.
“A beautiful woman—” He releases my jaw and traces a finger to my chin. My heart stutters, as if I’m about to jump from a plane with no parachute. He utters the next words in French: “—should be free.”
I take it back. Maybe I’ve never heard the French language at all until now.
A car horn blares.
I jump as if someone’s slapped me from a stupor. Graham doesn’t move at first. His back stiffens and his throat bobs, head hanging for a moment before he pushes away from the wall. While he’s walking to the window, I shake off whatever’s hanging in the air and force myself to reset.
Strange—very strange. I suppose I can chalk it up to Graham Baudelaire doing what Graham Baudelaire does best.
But what does he gain from manipulating me now?
“You have everything?” he asks, not meeting my eyes as he grabs the door handle.
I nod silently. I swept the room three times just to be sure. Whenever you leave a location, you should always be prepared to never come back—by choice or not. Necessities stay on your person, and things like luggage and a change of clothes are left behind.
It’s a thirty minute trip filled with the vibrant greens of fields and forests, the cityscape giving way to vast open air and the odd neighborhood with large gardens.
The sun is dipped low, scraping the tops of the trees and flickering into the car with flashes of amber.
I let myself linger on it for longer than usual before I turn my attention to the driver.
I won’t be able to let my guard down until the Consultant is behind bars and there’s one less person hunting me.
Or maybe never.
But now there’s a chance I might not be alone for it all. I could have a partner—someone who might turn into a real friend, whatever that feels like. With Kat by my side, there’s a higher chance of swaying Mateo, and there’ll be one less chess piece on Raffaele’s board.
I’m not familiar with hope—I don’t want to let go of it yet. Life has always appeared bleak, tinted the maroon and plum of blood and bruises.
We say nothing until the car doors slam shut behind us and we’re left alone at the bottom of the tree-lined drive.
I double-check for my gun and my knife, even though they haven’t moved a fraction since I gave up on sleep last night.
Graham’s eyeing me with a complete lack of subtlety while we climb the small hill toward the quintessentially French estate.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
No. And he shouldn’t know that merely by looking.
I sigh and sweep my eyes across the massive, emerald-colored patch of grass and over the hotel’s facade. “Well, the last time I saw her she was rather determined to kill me. There’s a high chance that if I can’t convince her to come with us, I’ll be leaving in a body bag.”
Now I’m annoyed that I said anything at all. My tongue’s become loose with sleep deprivation and the foreign warmth that blooms in my chest when he gets too close.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” he determines.
“No backing out now.”
“Sloane—”
“Didn’t you already say that we could use the help?” I retort.
Graham falls silent, features hardened with frustration that I’ve managed to throw his own words back in his face.
But it doesn’t matter, because we’re already on the gravel pathway approaching the hotel.
I try to stick close to the wall and out of sight from the upper windows without causing too much suspicion.
The lobby is small and not unlike La Réserve. Several heads from the dining room to our right swivel to our direction. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
Once we’ve arrived at the reception desk, I immediately begin playing the part we’d decided on.
“Excuse me,” I half-shout in an exaggerated American accent. My hand clamps around Graham’s elbow and I haul him to my side. “My husband here says he’s never stayed at this hotel.”
The receptionist, a gangly younger woman with silky black hair, glances desperately from me to Graham. Perfect.
“Je suis désolé,” Graham murmurs, hand to his heart.
“What are you saying to her?” I half-screech. “Are you telling her to–to… scrub the security tapes?!”
The receptionist blanches and looks to Graham. “Eh… surveillance?” She asks in an alarmed, thick French accent.
My fist slams onto the counter. They both flinch. “There’s a photo of him here, with some woman!” I pretend to catch Graham shrugging helplessly toward the receptionist. “Oh, don’t do that—don’t play stupid with me. If you can’t prove to me that wasn’t you, I’m… I’ll leave you!”
Graham hesitates. My mouth falls open and my jaw juts forward with feigned outrage.
“What about the baby?” I whisper-yell.
The receptionist’s mouth opens too. “Un bébé?!”
Now we’re both staring at Graham, equally aghast that he could’ve possibly cheated on his pregnant wife.
“Please, mon amour, go rest.” He presses a kiss to my temple and my skin breaks out into goosebumps. “You don’t want to stress the baby. I will sort this out for us both.”
I cross my arms and give a convincing pout, storming away to the seating area with two plush chaises and a wall of framed paintings.
From my peripheral, I watch him pretend to pour out his soul in rapid French, a compellingly desperate man beseeching his last hope. It helps that he’s absurdly attractive.
I—what? No. Or…
A tiny laugh threatens to escape but I press my lips together.
Whatever’s happening to me, I don’t think that I entirely… hate it. Graham is dangerous, alright. For none of the reasons I originally thought.
Several minutes later, he offers me his hand and pulls me to my feet. It feels unnecessary when he draws me into his arms and presses his lips to my ear. Not that I’m necessarily complaining this time.
“A baby? Seriously?” There’s a smile in his voice.
My hands give his biceps a squeeze. Entirely of their own volition—a reflex for the act, obviously. “Improvisation, sweetheart,” I reply.
My reward is the low rumble in his chest. I pull away as he’s shaking his head and laughing. The smile that wiggles onto my lips is alarmingly involuntary. Long seconds pass where we’re grinning like fools at each other—too many seconds to be professional.
I clear my throat. “Did you… get the information?”
He nods and laces his fingers with mine, giving a tug. We pass the receptionist, who presses her hand over her heart and sighs as if Graham has single-handedly raised her standards.
Right. This is a cover.
A handful of minutes into my first mission without the ISA and my lines have blurred into a jumbled mess.
We slip down a marble passageway, hand in hand, playing up the act that we’re two lovers escaping for a private rendezvous. Graham pulls me to him as a hotel staff member sends us a curious look, spinning me into his arms as we stumble backward against the wall.
“The stairs are at the end of this hall,” he mutters, mouth dipped to my ear.
I giggle like he’s the world’s best flirt. Although, he might be, I think.
He continues, “I gave the receptionist Kat’s physical description, and said that you simply needed confirmation from the woman in the photo herself.”
“I’m not a very trusting wife, am I?”
Graham’s hold loosens and we continue to the stairwell. “To be fair, I seem to be quite the cad of a husband.”
I release his hand once we’re ascending the marble stairs.
After a quick scan for the security cameras in here—disturbingly scant and pointed in the wrong direction—I transition my gun from the back of my waistband to the front.
Graham opens the door for the second level as I stoop and retrieve the knife from my boot, tucking it into my sleeve.
Luckily the sweater’s tight enough to hold it in place.
Not that any of this will matter much if Kat decides to kill me. There’s no telling what kind of weapons she brought with her.
“Room 216,” Graham says.
I nod at the sign with room numbers and arrows, heart in my throat and muscles tightening to attention. We stalk down the velvet rug, our footfalls equally quiet, although Graham is hilariously ill-equipped for what might be ahead.
Kat’s door looms in the distance. I walk a little and pause, listen, then walk some more. A few feet away, I twist toward Graham and press my knife into his hand, shooting him a silent look that says, “Don’t argue with me, I’m armed.”
Here goes nothing.
My knuckles rap lightly against the door. We freeze in tandem. I hold my breath.
And… the door swings open a crack.
Only, there were no sounds of a lock sliding out of place or the handle pulling. With the toe of my boot, I edge the door open further, slithering inside and drawing my weapon. Graham’s right behind, as silent as a light breeze.
It’s a narrow hallway, and the first room is the toilet to our right. My gaze narrows, shoulders loosening. I approach slowly at first, then in a flash, pouncing on the empty room.
I give Graham a head shake and creep back out into the hall toward the main area.
Dusky light from the windows is dampened by drawn curtains. I can barely make out a bed and a living area while my eyes adjust. Graham edges to the opposite wall, his hand on the lightswitch, and our eyes lock in the shadows. I brace myself and send a nod.
I only have a couple seconds to prepare for whatever lurks in the dark.
The lights ignite, warm and dim enough that they don’t blind.
I do quick, reflexive calculations: three windows—all shut, no other doors, no space beneath the bed.
The room’s a mess, too—duvet crumpled, suitcase dumped and contents strewn across the floor.
A sickening dread creates a helix of spikes around my spine.
My gun lowers to my side before I find her.
She’s reclining in an armchair, facing the window, clad in a fuzzy white bathrobe.
I blow out a soundless breath of relief and holster my weapon.
It could be all for nothing. She could whirl around, gun at the ready, and say I should’ve let sleeping dogs lie.
That my death, and Graham’s, will be on me—and the remaining life will be torn from my body.
“Kat,” I say gently, ready to dive for cover in case we managed to spook her.
A frown pulls across my lips when she doesn’t reply. My legs swiftly eat the distance. The air conditioner’s blasting, but a trickle of sweat is already beginning to gather at my hairline.
“Kat—”
I swallow the rest of my question.
Katsumi Yamada is slumped in the velvet armchair like a broken doll, neck snapped.