Around the corner, I should find the door and a key under the topiary. Their word. Not mine. No ordinary potted plant for these folks.
I don’t know who owns the apartment, and any communication with them must go through Lin. Including the basic information she passed on to me, details about where to go and how to get in. And a single rule.
Don’t disturb the family.
Which is why the clatter and clunk of my luggage makes me cringe, the sound echoing off the high walls. I slow down, trying to be quiet as I follow a paved walkway from the courtyard. I round the corner and pass under a giant tree, branches rattling in the wind overhead, clacking together like dried bones.
No light burns above the door, so I deposit my luggage on the stoop and turn on my phone’s flashlight. Kneeling, I tip the planter to one side and shine the light underneath. Nothing’s there. I tip it the other way.
Still no key.
No way to get inside.
Dread drags its teeth up my spine, then takes a cold bite between my shoulder blades.No, no, no.
Desperate, I pick up the pot, ignoring the sharp leaves jabbing my cheek. I set the topiary aside and scan the grainy stone with my light.
Nothing.
The key’s not here.
“This can’t be happening.” My arms fall to my sides, and I stare at the locked door. What am I supposed to do?
The thought of knocking on the main house’s door sends my system spiraling.
Don’t disturb the family.
I’ll call Lin. She’ll be able to?—
Footsteps again, echoing through the night.
The same rhythmic sound as before, rising from the cobblestones.
Only this time it’s loud.
This time it’s close.
“Hello?”
No one answers.
But someone is here.
Panic ratchets, rising in my chest.
Whoever it is, they’re coming this way.
And all I can do is stand frozen as a dark shape rounds the corner.
2
Light from the courtyard hits at a new angle, casting the person in silhouette. A woman. She stops when she notices me, lifting her hand to one side of her head, then the other. Removing earbuds.
I release my breath in a rush, my heart kicking three times before it slows. She didn’t answer because she didn’t hear me.
“You must be Brooke,” she says, her French accent light and smooth. She hurries down the walk—petite, thin, angel-blonde hair. “Sorry, I forgot to put the key out. I hope you haven’t been waiting.”
“No,” I say, the last dregs of tension draining from my body. “Perfect timing, actually.”
