The line went silent, and Razor stood there, staring at the screen of his phone. His thumb hovered over it for a moment, but he didn’t send another message. He didn’t need to. The request had been made, and now there was no turning back.
As Razor slipped his phone back into his pocket, he thought about what he’d just set in motion. The information would come to him soon, and then he would know everything…everything about Lottie. Who she was, where she’d been, who she’d been with.
But the real question wasn’t about the past. It was about the present. About whether or not he could bend those rules he had lived by for so long. And about whether or not Lottie was someone he could actually let in.
The answer, Razor realized, was already there. He just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
Chapter Seventeen
Lottie moved through the cobblestone streets of Old City like she belonged to the rhythm of it, slow, deliberate, unbothered by the press of tourists or the echo of horse-drawn carriages clopping somewhere behind her.
The air carried a blend of things that didn’t belong together but somehow did: warm sugar from a nearby bakery, river dampness rolling in off the St. Lawrence, and the faint metallic bite of old stone after the rain. It clung to her coat as she paused in front of a boutique window, tilting her head slightly, she studied the display. Linen dresses in muted creams, hand-stitched leather bags, scarves that looked too soft to be real.
Her fingers curled loosely around a small paper shopping bag already marked with the stamp of a local artisan shop, Nothing flashy. Nothing hurried. She wasn’t shopping for anything specific as much as looking for something to add to her wardrobe.
A couple brushed past her, laughing in English, their voices fading quickly into the crowd. She didn’t turn to see what they were commenting on. Her attention stayed on the glass, onher reflection layered over the shop’s warm lighting. Lifting a hand, she smoothed her slightly wind-tossed hair. Her eyes were unreadable, posture calm but alert in the way as someone who knew what dangers lurked in every face and shadow.
She looked deeper into the shop and spotted a rack of stylish dresses in dark tones. The soft jingle of a bell had her pushing towards the entrance. As she stepped into the shop, Lottie bumped into a woman with long blonde hair. A stark contrast to her raven black hair. She was attractive but curt. Lottie brushed off the glare the woman aimed at her. “Sorry,” she said politely.
“Tu devrais être plus prudent, tu es un crétin,” the woman shouted at her. Taking a step back, Lottie was shocked that she had called her a twit before storming out.
“Are you alright, miss?” one of the boutique employees asked her, bringing Lottie’s attention away from the rude woman.
Shaking off the annoyance, she turned to the young woman. “I’m fine.” But was she? Fine. Something about the woman seemed familiar. But Lottie couldn’t pinpoint where she might know her from.
The harsh words from the woman lingered in her mind, and she couldn’t help but replay the encounter.
"Tu devrais être plus prudent, tu es un crétin."The words rang in her head, as though she could still hear the woman's sharp accent.
"Stupid..." Lottie muttered to herself, rubbing her temples. The insult felt strangely personal, though it didn’t really make sense. She’d apologized, after all. What had made the woman so angry?
Moving through the shop, she found the rack of dresses that had drawn her inside. Thumbing through them, she felt the material and inspected the stitching to see how well each garment was made. She didn’t like to waste money on items that would just fall apart after one washing.
Pulling three from the rack, she found a shop girl and asked for a dressing room.
Twenty minutes and one hundred dollars later, Lottie stepped out of the dress shop with another nondescript bag in hand.
Before she realized that early evening had descended on Old Montreal. It was one of her favorite times of the day. It was when the city’s edges softened. Lantern light warmed the stone. Foot traffic thinned into couples and small groups drifting between wine bars. Sometimes it felt like she was simply drifting down the streets instead of walking.
Lottie realized she hadn’t eaten all day. She’d smelled a lot of delicious smells wafting out of bistros and bakeries, but hadn’t once stopped long enough to have so much as a coffee.
She ended up at Gina’s. Not because it was the most visible place, but because it let her disappear inside it. The hostess led her to a table that wasn’t tucked away but wasn’t in the center either—somewhere she could see the room without being part of its conversation. She eased her coat off and folded it neatly over the back of the chair beside the one she chose to sit in, setting the bags neatly at her feet.
Lottie sat with a quiet certainty, like she had done this a hundred times after long shifts. The truth was this was new, eating alone. Shopping alone. But instead of hiding herself away, she chose to occupy the space as if she owned it.
“Bonsoir, puis-je vous apporter quelque chose du bar?”
Lottie ordered a glass of red wine as she looked over the menu. When the drink arrived, she held it for a moment, fingers warm around the stem, eyes briefly unfocused as the room settled around her.
The way people looked at her made Lottie feel a little mysterious. To them, she probably looked like she lived in a different world than what they were used to.
She ordered seared fish with excess grilled vegetables. The waitress brought a plate with warm bread with seasoned dipping oil and set it on the table for her to enjoy.
Sitting, Lottie’s mind went back to the woman from earlier in the day. The thought had her setting her wine glass aside and pulling out her phone and shooting Sway a text about the woman.
Lottie- Hey chic, some rude woman called me a twit. Can you believe that?
Sway- Rude
