RISE AND SHINE
Sutton woke hard, alone, unsure for a moment where she was. Her back hurt, and her mouth was dry. The sun was shining outside, puffy white clouds meandering through the bluest sky she’d ever seen. She raised her head, the room coming into view. The picture window in front of her showed the black metal lines of the Tour, which centered her.
Paris. She was in Paris. She was Justine Holliday, from Hollywood, Florida. She was writing a memoir. She’d met a handsome young man and had a fun few days of pleasure. Just what the doctor ordered.
So why didn’t she feel all romantic and gooey inside?
Probably because she’d stumbled on a nasty crime scene and all the magic of Paris was lost to her now.
She peeled herself up off the desk. She’d fallen asleep with her head on the keyboard. She was stiff and sore and headachy. Her stomach was still queasy. She must be coming down with something. She probably picked it up on the plane. Great.
She drank a glass of water, stretched a little. A croissant wouldn’t go amiss. She knew she had to be careful with the carbs; she’d turn into a house if she didn’t watch her diet, but right now, with an upset stomach and a stiff neck, the prospect of warm, flaky dough drenched in butter and jam sounded heavenly.
She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, put on a pair of dark sunglasses. She took the stairs down, for the exercise. Outside, the air was crisp as if it had rained overnight and washed away the stickiness of the pollen, but the streets weren’t wet, and the air was still suffused with floating yellow fairies.
It was a beautiful morning.
The café on the corner had a small set of tables in front of their windows with a red-and-white-striped awning overhead. It was so French. So perfect.
She was being ridiculous. She needed to stick with the program. She’d planned this for weeks and now she was here and she needed to stop being a wishy-washy child and roll with the decisions she’d made. This was what she wanted. Paris. Freedom.
Yes.
Suddenly ravenous and filled with love for her new life, she purchased two croissants with strawberry jam and sat at the table, drinking cool water from a small glass. The waiter brought her a steaming hot café au lait. She opened her notebook and wrote a few lines. Really, wasn’t this exactly what she was hoping for? She wanted to smell the Parisian air, feel the cobblestones under her feet. Finishing her breakfast, she made a few more notes, paid the check, and decided to walk before working more.
Her choice of neighborhood had been inspired. She was so close to the Seine. She already had her bearings, could sense the river to her left, how the sky lightened between the buildings. Ten minutes later she found herself by the gray ribbon of water. She strolled along the quay toward Les Invalides. There were houseboats lashed to the banks below the ponts—why hadn’t she thought of that? Living on the water, able to lift anchor and float away if necessary, the constant glow of the sun on the small rippling waves, would be the perfect life for a woman trying to remain unseen.
But it might be hard to work on the laptop, she did get a bit seasick. At the thought, a small qualm went through her. She chased it away with a nice, deep lungful of heady river air.
A bateau-mouche full of tourists cruised below her. They waved madly and shouted when they realized they’d caught her attention. Students, by the looks of them, young, carefree, so open and ready. Did they have any idea what waited for them in the world? The sorrow and pain and misery? Were they simply lost in their own narcissistic little lives?
When she was their age, she was heavy with... But no, she didn’t want to think about that today. Today was for reveling in her new life. Today was for Justine Holliday.
She waved back, and they cheered.
Oh, the possibilities. Oh, the places you will go.
The Seine is a dynamic beast, ever changing as the day goes by, and she witnessed its many variations with pleasure. She walked miles, up the left bank, past the Pont Neuf, down to Notre-Dame. Pont des Arts’s charm was no longer—the new Plexiglas barrier was disheartening; she’d so been looking forward to seeing all the locks attached to the wires, half a century of lovers’ declarations. She crossed the Seine on the Pont de Bercy, moved back up the right bank until she found an open bench beneath a willow, and watched. Lovers, tourists, businessmen, artists. The banks of the Seine drew them all, like moths to a flame.
She preferred the right bank; the wide paths were lined with willows and lindens and horse chestnuts, their leaves green and yellow, begging to shelter.
The gray stone and stormy water and the green trees with their brown bark, peeling in places, waving to and fro in the gentle Parisian spring breeze, allowing bits of sunshine to peek through, made for a lovely afternoon. Sutton wrote in her notebook, napped a bit, allowed herself to unplug. Dropped petals from a lily she found into the water, let their passage sweep away her shame. Let the guilt and horror she’d been living with go.
Lighter of spirit, she walked slowly up the river toward her new home. It all felt so right. So good.
Back in her neighborhood, she grabbed fresh crusty bread and fragrant onion soup from the café on the corner. The sun was setting as she mounted the steps to her flat. She unlocked the door, went inside. The rooms were filled with pink light. She admired the view one last time, ate her soup, dipping the bread into the broth, had a small glass of wine, and went to her desk to start transcribing her notes. She pulled out her chair.
The metallic clunk startled her. She leaped backward. The knife just missed her foot.
“What in the hell?”
She bent down and picked it up. It was a hunting knife, large, with a clean edge on one side and a serrated edge on the other. The handle was dark bone, with a metal rivet at the base, where it met the tang of metal. It smelled off. Like bleach, but less strong.
There was tape on both ends, the sharp and the dull. She set it down, got on her hands and knees, wedged her head under the drawer, and looked under the desk. There were trailing edges of masking tape, the two sides ripped apart. She fit the knife into position, saw it matched the edges. The knife would fit perfectly in the space.
Which meant the knife had been taped under her desk. What in the world? Jesus, had someone broken into the flat and taped it under her desk?
She crawled out from under and stared at the knife. The handle had something on it, flecks of... God, was that blood?
Something like panic began to crawl up her spine.
This was not her knife.
So whose knife was it?
WHEN THINGS GO SIDEWAYS
Heavy pounding started on her door, and Sutton dropped the knife to the desk. It clattered against the edge, then fell onto the floor.