Ifrowned.
“That mobster, Jarod Adler, well, he leaked names and documents detailing crimes to every paper in the country. The press is calling it the Demon Files. You haven’t heard aboutthem?”
Alarm skipped down my spine. “I’ve beenaway.”
“Hasn’t been this crazy in Paris since the bombings a couple yearsback.”
I looked out the window, wishing the hotel Celeste or Asher had picked had been closer to Jarod’shome.
The radio blustered to life, and as the cab rolled slowly across the dark city, I heard Jarod’s name being spoken over and over as the late-night hosts speculated about what could have triggered the mob boss’s change of heart. I heard them mention Tristan’s death and then venture another hypothesis—secret agent of theDGSI.
I’m trying to be a better man, Feather. I’m trying to be worthy ofyou.
All at once proud and frightened by his reveals, I worked the lace hem of my silk shift between my fingers, my pulse drumming quicker and quicker until it drowned out the sound of theradio.
I’m almost home, mylove.
When the iron fence framing the manicured square appeared, I almost ripped the handle off the car door. News vans and police barricades clogged Jarod’s street, and bright beams slashed the darkness. The thunder in my ears grew so loud I thought it would slit my eardrums. As soon as the car slowed, I leapedout.
The cabdriver lowered her window. “Hey. You forgot to payme!”
“I’ll send someone out withmoney.”
A police officer stepped in front of me. “This road has been shutdown.”
The cabdriver was stillhollering.
“I need to see Jarod Adler,” I said, desperation shaking myvoice.
“Sorry, but I can’t let youthrough.”
I calculated how I could get around him, and in doing so, my gaze landed on Amir, who was arguing with a man shouldering a hugecamera.
“Amir!” I yelled, waving myhands.
The bodyguard with the smashed face looked up, and his eyes, which were as bruised as my cheek, widened. “Mademoiselle Leigh?” He shoved past the cameraman. “Jarod said you’dleft.”
“I’d neverleave.”
Someone tapped my shoulder, and Itwirled.
“Mon argent.” The cabbie stuck out herhand.
“I’ll take care of it.” Amir shoved the police barricade aside so I could slide through, then peeled a green bill from his pocket, and handed it to thewoman.
Is that the girl from the opera? What’s with the hotel slippers? What happened to her?Questions were flung left and right. Flashes from camera bulbs went off brightening the darkness before blackening itfurther.
Amir draped his jacket around my shoulders as he walked me to the porte-cochère. Even though the fabric smelled of sweat, I tugged it around me, thankful for the extra bit of warmth and privacy it affordedme.
There was no familiar click tonight. The door just gave way when Amir pressed his fingers into the lacqueredwood.
“Jarod broke the lock,” he explained, the bones in his face straining his skin. “The boy has had a death wish since you—since youleft.”
Even though I’d been removed from this house against my will, guilt washed over me. “I’m back. Forgood.”
I stepped over the raised threshold, looking toward Jarod’s balcony. I wanted to shout his name, tell him I was home, but my violent pulse made the measly act of breathing anexploit.
I quickened my footsteps, almost colliding into a bodyguard. As we glided past each other, a bitter, gray scent wafted off the man’s bushy, wiry beard—gun smoke? Had the man fired his weapon? Had someone tried to harmJarod?
