The man wore his smile like makeup and his eyes twinkled genially, reminding her of the sparse stars above which had managed to push their way through the city lights.
“All things are well,” she said, nodding. “How is your evening?”
The man shrugged, causing the wool cap on his head to shift a little. He reached up and tugged it off with his free hand, stowing it on top of the bundle in his arm.
This struck her as rather odd, and she said as much. It was as her mother always said: the women of Paris ought never fear their opinions.
“You will smother the child,” she said, pointing toward the hat.
The man nodded as if he agreed, but made no move to adjust the garment. He seemed, almost, to be waiting for something. He scratched at his red hair, which tumbled past his face in loose, sweaty strands.
After a moment, he caught her eye. “The child likes shade,” he said. His French still came on with a thick accent. “Say, do you know the course to—to—how do you say it—the water structure? No—hmm, the bridge!”
Marion shook her head in momentary confusion, but then smiled back at the man, meeting his pleasant expression with one of her own. “There are a few bridges. The nearest one is along this street, across the walk and down the stairs near the wharf.”
The man winced in confusion, shaking his head and tapping his ear. “What is this?”
She repeated the instructions, carefully. Obviously, this man was a lost tourist, though she couldn’t quite place his accent.
Again, the man winced, holding up his free hand apologetically and shaking his head once more.
Marion sighed. She glanced over her shoulder, back up the street in the direction of the club. Her friends would be waiting. Then she returned her attention to the man and his child, her eyes darting to his pleading expression, and she felt a surge of pity.
“I will show you, all right? It isn’t far. Follow me, sir.” She turned, heading back the way she had come. She suppressed all the bitter thoughts about tourists that half the city circulated in casual conversation. She quite liked tourists, even if they were a bit dense.
The man seemed to understand her well enough this time and fell into step, cradling his child with the cap on top.
“You is a demon,” said the man, his tone filled with gratitude.
Marion frowned at this.
The man hesitated, then urgently amended, “No—I mean angel. So sorry. Not demon—you is angel!”
Marion laughed, shaking her head. With a wink of her own, she said, “Perhaps I am a bit demon, too, hmm?”
This time it was the man’s turn to laugh. The baby cried again beneath the hat and the man turned, whispering sweetly to his child.
They crossed the street and Marion led the man down the stairs by the wharf. Already, the bridge was in sight, but the man seemed so distracted with his child that Marion felt bad about abandoning him without taking him direct.
As they descended the stairs, dipping beneath a dank, stone overpass, the area became less illuminated. There were far fewer people around now.
“We are here,” said the man, his French markedly improved all of a sudden.
Marion glanced at him, then noticed something odd. The man noticed her gaze and then gave an apologetic shrug. He dropped the blanket. A small, toy baby—the type that would cry with their bellies pushed—was strapped to the man’s forearm. The baby’s plastic eyes peered out at Marion.
The man winked. “I told you he likes the shade.”
Marion wrinkled her brow in pleasant confusion.
A moment too late, she saw the surgeon’s scalpel in the man’s left hand. Then he shoved her, hard, the plastic doll crying quietly in the night.
CHAPTER THREE
Adele stood before the stone steps of the school, eyeing the crowd of children with the greatest of suspicion. She shook her head once, then glanced up at her mother. Her gaze didn’t have to travel far; already, Adele was taller than most of her classmates. She had hit a growth spurt when she still lived in Germany, with the Sergeant, and it hadn’t seemed to stop until this year.
Now fifteen, Adele found the boys in Paris paid more attention to her than the ones in Germany had. Still, as she stood studying the flow of students into the bilingual secondary school, she couldn’t help but feel a jolt of anxiety.
“What is it, my Cara?” her mother asked, smiling sweetly at her daughter.
Adele wrinkled her nose at the nickname, wiping her hands over the front of her school sweater and twisting the buttons on the cotton sleeves. Her mother had grown up in France, and had particular fondness for the Carambar caramels which were still popular in candy shops and gas stations. She often said the jokes written on the outside of the caramel’s wrappers were a lot like Adele: clever on the outside with a soft and sweet middle. The description made Adele gag.
Adele Sharp had her mother’s hair and good looks, but she often thought she had her father’s eyes and outlook.
“They are so noisy,” Adele replied in French, the words slow and clumsy on her tongue. The first twelve years of her life had been spent in Germany; re-acclimating to French was taking some time.
“They are children, my Cara. They are supposed to be noisy; you should try it.”
Adele frowned, shaking her head. The Sergeant had never approved of noisy children. Noise provided only distraction. It was the tool of fools and sluggish thinkers.
“It is the best school in Paris,” said her mother, reaching out a cool hand to cup her daughter’s cheek. “Give it a try, hmm?”
“Why can’t I homeschool like last year?”
“Because it is not good for you to stay trapped in that apartment with me—no, no.” Her mother clicked her tongue, making a tsking sound. “This is not good for you. You enjoyed swimming at your old school, didn’t you? Well, there is an excellent team here. I spoke with my friend Anna, and she says her daughter made tryouts the first year.”
Adele shrugged with a shoulder, smiling with one side of her mouth. She sighed and then dipped her head, trying not to stand out over the other children so much.
Her mother gave her a kiss on the cheek, which Adele returned halfheartedly. She turned to leave, hefting her school bag over one shoulder. As she trudged toward the school, the sound of the bell and milling children faded. The secondary school flashed and the walls turned gray.
Adele shook her head, confused. She turned back toward the curb. “Mother?” she said, her voice shaky. She was now in the park at night.
“Cara,” voices whispered around her from the looming, dark trees.
She stared. Twenty-two years old. It had all ended at twenty-two.
Her mother lay on the side of the bike trail, in the grass, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding…
Always bleeding.
Her dead eyes peered up at her daughter. Adele was no longer twenty-two. Now she was twenty-three, joining the DGSI, working her first case—the death of her mother. Then she was twenty-six, working for the FBI. Then thirty-two.
Tick-tock. Bleeding.
Elise Romei was missing three fingers on each hand; her eyes had been pierced. Cuts laced up and down her cheeks in curious, beautiful patterns as if gouged into felt, glistening red.
Tick-tock. Adele screamed as the blood pooled around her mother, filling the bike trail, flooding the grass and the dirt, threatening to consume her, to overwhelm her…