He went back to his partner and took up his station again, hands on hips, legs spread, frowning at her. With a last glance at the knot of people down the hill, she walked back the way she’d come, through the leafy green canopy to a small square. There was no way to be alone now, which was a shame. She’d felt something deep connecting her to the city atop the hill. Something strong and good. A beginning, maybe. Or an end.
Winding down the hill, past the artists who’d been painting the sunrise over the city, she took a seat at the first café she saw, asked for coffee and a croissant, opened her laptop. As she was putting in her earbuds, two women took the table next to her. She couldn’t help but tune in when she heard the tone of their voices, so unlike the usual happy babble of the Parisian café. This was filled with dread and wonder and excitement.
“Did you hear? About the murder? A young American couple. Pierre said their bodies are still up there.”
“I heard they were gutted.”
“I heard she was beheaded.”
“These terrorists are ruining our city.”
“Pierre spoke to the flics. It was not terror. They were targeted. It was cold-blooded murder. In our backyard, no less.”
Sutton felt a small frisson. It was rude, frowned upon, to eavesdrop, but Sutton couldn’t help herself. She needed to know more.
“Excusez-moi. Le meurtre des Américains, c’était où?” Where?
The women turned. They were so classically French, at once painfully plain and yet ethereally beautiful, one brunette, one blonde, both perfect, elegant, lines on their foreheads, no makeup outside of a swipe of red lipstick, their hair in identical styles, shoulder-length, straight, flipped up on the ends.
In English, the brunette replied, gesturing over Sutton’s shoulder, “Sacré-Coeur. You’re American?”
“I am.”
“You should go home, and you need to be careful. If there are murderers about, Paris is dangerous for a young woman such as yourself.”
Their breakfast interrupted, the two women stood and left.
Normally Sutton would be hurt by the brusque exchange, but she ignored their slight. The two flics, on the back side of Sacré-Coeur. Had they been guarding the bodies of the two young Americans who’d been murdered?
She tied in to the café’s Wi-Fi, pulled up the website of French24, the English language website and news station she’d been watching online for the few weeks prior to leaving. The murder was the lede, the details thin.
She read rapidly. The Americans were young but unidentified, only named as exchange students. The cause of death was not listed.
She gulped down her coffee, wrapped the croissant in the paper napkin, packed away her laptop. There was no peace in the day for her anymore.
She starting winding her way down the hill. Half a block later she came across a flower stand. So many gorgeous blooms, all the colors of the rainbow. Those children—it was hard to think of anyone in school still as an adult—dead by a stranger’s hand in the most beautiful city in the world. It broke her heart.
She plucked a bunch from the water, paid for it, then trudged back up the hill. She didn’t know why she felt the need to mark their deaths—these two were nothing to her—and yet she was compelled. Maybe the fact that they were Americans, maybe that she’d come close again to death and the flowers were a sort of protection against it following her home. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care.
She walked directly to the white steps of the cathedral, set the flowers there, whispered a short prayer, and hurried away.
AN APPOINTMENT MISSED, A DISASTER AVOIDED
Back in the 7th, the murders were the talk of the whole neighborhood. Amazing how quickly news spread, amazing how many strangers were fascinated with the story. Sutton walked to the café on the corner, her place, as she’d come to think of it over the past few days. She set up shop with her laptop and delayed breakfast, but everyone was buzzing, and she finally closed the lid of the computer and listened to the chatter.
How odd, Sutton thought. The rumors all agreed on one thing. The victims had not been robbed. The girl’s purse was there, zipped, intact; the boy’s wallet and phone and money clip were still in his pockets. They both wore watches. Passports left behind, too.
It felt weird to everyone.
“If it wasn’t random...” they whispered.
Americans being targeted in Paris was cause for alarm for everyone, especially expats on the run from their lives, who couldn’t completely pass as Parisians. And to think, she’d been right there, had practically walked into the crime scene. The thought chilled to the bone.
She wondered briefly about Constantine, whether he’d be disappointed when she didn’t show for their lunch date. She’d decided on the Metro home, it was for the best that she didn’t see him again. He’d filled his purpose, helped her make the break with her past. That’s what she needed. A break from her past.
There was nothing more to learn this morning. She slipped in her earbuds and started to write.
*
A tap on her shoulder yanked her back. She pulled out the left earbud, only half processing who’d interrupted her. Startled at the familiar voice.
“Hello there.”
Constantine.
“Oh. Hi.”
“You don’t look happy to see me,” Constantine said, leaning in to kiss her on the forehead. She forced herself not to draw away, though she wanted to. “I thought we were meeting for lunch. You weren’t there.” His hand lingered on her shoulder, squeezing gently, possessive and familiar.
She rolled her neck to knock his hand away unobtrusively, feigned looking at her watch. “Oh, my goodness. I lost track of time.” All the while thinking, You tracked me down? Uh-oh.
It was nearly three in the afternoon. She was cramped from crouching over the computer on the tiny table, but she had ten new pages on the book. She was just about to cut out for the afternoon, drop off the laptop, and go for a walk.
Sitting, he leaned close and whispered, “Why don’t we go back to your place? I’ve been dying to see you.”
She could smell him, a combination of man and subtle cologne and sex. He smells of sex. Who had he been with? Was it just left over from her? She tried not to notice he was still handsome, still had that animal magnetism. Tried not to listen when a nasty little voice inside her said, Why not?
Don’t be an idiot. Don’t be an idiot.
“I can’t, Constantine. I’m afraid I must work.” She heard the ice in her tone. The old Sutton was back, empty, devoid. No more mistakes, no more dalliances. It was how she’d been talking to Ethan for the past month, since she found the allergy medicine in the closet and started planning her escape. Cold and remote.
That tone cut like a knife. She’d honed it well. There was hurt on Constantine’s face, and she felt terrible. Why must women worry about hurting feelings?
Don’t give in, don’t be stupid. Stay emotionless.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked, sitting back in the chair.
“No. Not at all. I had fun. It was fun. But I came here to be alone. I wasn’t planning to get involved with anyone.”
He ran a finger along her arm, like she had to him when they first met. She swallowed. What could it hurt, once more?
“It’s all good fun. No involvement necessary. I’m not asking for anything.”