The killer stabbed the boy once in the kidney, forcing him to stumble forward in shock. The killer then ripped the knife across the neck of the girl, and pulled the ring from her finger as she fell. He waited for them to stop struggling, dispassionately.
Careful not to step in the blood, he swiped the top and edge of the ring box in the deepest spot of wet burgundy, wrapped it in plastic, and stashed it in his pocket, then arranged the students on the steps so Lily was on top, facedown, with her arms around her lover, her fiancée, and the moment that should have been the happiest for them both mingled with their spilled blood on the bone-white marble steps and they died that way, together.
It was quick, don’t worry. They didn’t suffer. They were too shocked by the blitzkrieg, and then too empty of blood to really know what had just happened. And if you think about it, it wasn’t a terrible way to go. At least they had happiness in the end, and each other.
There were no witnesses, rather miraculous, really, when you consider how many people were in the vicinity when it happened. But, conveniently for the killer, the young lovers had wanted a private moment, and so had stepped away from the main thoroughfare, where the view wasn’t quite as good but there was no one else around.
A man walking his dog found them, piled on top of each other. He thought for a moment they were making love, and smiled to himself at the folly of youth, then his flashlight showed the pool of blood, and he knew something was very, very wrong. While the man called emergency, his dog stepped delicately along the edges, sniffing, leaving tiny red paw prints around the scene.
When the Parisian police arrived, they were suitably frantic. A contaminated crime scene, for one, and clearly the arrangement of some deranged killer. But worse, the identification in purse and pocket.
American tourists being murdered is very bad for business.
Very bad indeed.
THOSE SACRED HEARTS
Paris held many secrets. Sutton wanted to discover them all. She rose early, brushed her hair into a thick ponytail, put on a pair of dark New Balance sneakers, threw her laptop in her bag. Today was for exploring. She needed a change of scenery.
She didn’t know where she was headed, just grabbed the first train at the Metro and rode for fifteen minutes. She’d gone north, across the Seine. She didn’t recognize many of the stops, but one name pulled at her consciousness. Montmartre. Constantine had told her the light from Sacré-Coeur was some of the most amazing in all of Paris. He’d suggested they meet there for lunch today. Perfect. She’d visit the cathedral, see the sights, settle in to write at a café nearby (there was always a café nearby, this was Paris), then, if she so desired, would walk down the hill and meet him for lunch.
She gathered her bag and stood. When the train stopped, she waited for the doors to open. Nothing happened. A teenager knocked her in the shoulder as he reached for a small metal latch and opened the door. Oh. Tourist move there, Justine.
She climbed the stairs to the surface, a periwinkle emerging from the sand. She’d never need to exercise at this rate. Paris was nothing if not filled with stairs. The street appeared before her. It had a different feel than her neighborhood, immediately more cramped and artsy. She thought of Constantine then, the thick arms that had held her—well, no, not really held, more pinned her down. He’d been rough, and she’d enjoyed it, though now, looking back, she felt like things weren’t as blissful as she’d made them out to be. Revisionist history, tainted by alcohol. Her specialty.
Instinct told her meeting him, continuing this dalliance, was a bad idea. She knew better. She knew she should be more careful. She’d just been feeling so reckless, and the alcohol had gone to her head. She still felt ill. Regret and a two-day hangover, the breakfast of champion writers everywhere. Great.
So why was she even considering meeting him? She should blow him off, let him disappear into the fabric of the city, like she was trying to do. Connections were the last things she wanted.
He wouldn’t like it. She could tell he’d been very interested in her. A strong miasma of desire and dread filled her. You are a stupid fool, Justine. To risk all you’ve overcome to please yet another man. She wanted to see him badly; she didn’t ever want to see him again.
She took the funicular to the top, surprised to find it empty. The path was also quiet in the early morning. She walked in silence for a few moments, her sole companion a small black cat with white socks who mewed happily in a friendly French manner when she stopped to scratch his ears.
Constantine was right. As she emerged from the winding, leafy path from the funicular and made her way to the church grounds, the city unfolded before her. Rooftops and cathedrals, the lone skyscraper in Montparnasse straight ahead, the aggressive, thrusting buildings of La Défense to her right. Greens and golds and white, painfully beautiful to behold. It was as if she were the only person standing on the top of the world. The white marble of the cathedral so perfectly lit in the sun, the brightness nearly burned her eyes.
She shut them, took a breath. This was something she’d wanted for so long, and here she was, feeling more alone than she’d ever been.
Ethan.
The name came like a whisper on the breeze.
What was he doing? Did he miss her? Was he so thrilled to have her out of his house, his life, that he was planning a huge party?
She shouldn’t have done it this way. But she knew if she’d told him she wanted out, really out, divorce and separate lives out, he would talk her down from the ledge and she’d be stuck. He was so good with his words when he wanted to be. A clean break, disappearing from her life, it was the only way. She wasn’t strong enough to do it otherwise. She was so broken lately. The past year had been hell incarnate.
People arrived, flowing around her. The spell quickly broke in the face of their intrusion. So many languages. So many colors. She wanted to be alone again. She walked to the western edge of the courtyard. There she saw two flics, and it seemed like they were guarding something. She walked closer, but one held up a hand and barked, “Arrête.” Stop.
She froze. She could see now there were many people beyond the perimeter. He approached, speaking rapid French. “What are you doing here? You need to leave, right away. This area is closed.”
She smiled and nodded. “I’m so sorry. Is it construction?”
“No. Move along, now.”