Only heavy gusts thrashing the trees, and brown water streaming from the pebbled paths.
Slapping my hand on the bars, I curse and pull out my phone to dial the emergency number. This time, I don’t get the recorded message in French. I don’t get anything at all.
I check the screen, and the signal is gone, a circle with a slash through it where the bars should be. The same symbol covers the WiFi symbol, too. I have no service.
“No, no, no.” I try texting Lin, to let someone know I’m in trouble. But it doesn’t go through.
No service. A different code.
Not a coincidence.
Squeezing my phone, I continue through the gardens, telling myself I can climb the back gate. If I put one foot on the handle, I can throw myself over the bars. I can get out and go straight to the police.
But when I finally make it down the rear path, I see my memory has deceived me. There is no knob on the door, only a curved handle with a thumb latch. Too flat for me to stand on.
I step to the side, to the box beside the gate. Even though I know what’s happening, even though I know what to expect, I raise a shaking hand and type in the code. When nothing happens, I try again.
Four beeps. And nothing more.
I can’t get out. And I can’t call for help.
Defeated, soaked, and icy cold, I turn slowly to look up at the building. With no other option, I walk back along the path.
I return to Maison Marteau.
42
Back inside the apartment, I lock the door and peel off my wet jacket. Then check the lock one more time.
But they have keys.
The Marteau family is now a collective in my mind, one great and loomingtheythat includes every one of them. Except Luci.
Weretheywatching me race around in the rain, laughing as I tried to escape? And while one ofthemkept an eye on my progress, did someone else sneak into my apartment?
Standing stock still, because I don’t know what to do, I survey every dark corner of the entry hall. Any one of them could be hiding, just waiting for me to come close.
This is what they do. The thrill of the chase—spying on me, stalking me in my own apartment. A fancy Paris rental where they knew I’d feel safe.
I run to the kitchen and the knife block on the counter. My hands and arms shake, so I topple the wooden block on its side. In my terror, I grab one knife in each hand and back into a corner. Weapons up. Eyes wide.
Seconds pass. Maybe minutes.
Fear is a fire in my brain, smoking out rational thought. My basic instinct is to stand here, ready to fight. Or to hide, to crawl into a small, dark space, close my eyes and wait to be rescued.
Except no one knows I need help.
I can’t call or text. I can’t climb the fence or scream through the storm. And if Noah was telling me the truth, he won’t be returning for a couple of days.
That leaves me. The only person who can help Alice.
Me.
And Luci.
But if those photos are any indication, Luci might be in danger, too.
Before I can help them or myself, I have to calm down.
