I’m not paying attention, my feet just plodding on, one after the other. I know I should be paying attention, but I’m a million miles away.
It takes a lot of effort not to follow her. It kills me, because even now, I want to keep her safe.
Rousseau is dead. Yesterday, she was alive and breathing and today, she’s gone.
And I’m to blame for that.
I sent Cosette away because I knew being around me meant she’s as much of a target as I am.
Just like our informant was.
Whatever it was that Rousseau unearthed led to her execution.
There was a reason we paid her well, of course. She knew from the beginning the risks associated with socializing with us.
That doesn’t make me feel any less shitty.
I sent a military-level team with Cosette to take her to a new place, secure and apart from me.
And it kills me.
I brought her here to punish her for her betrayal and the sense of relief I had when I knew she didn’t betray us… but now…
“Monster Gerard!” I look up in surprise. No one ever recognizes me here. As soon as I look up, I see three university students with backpacks carrying bags ahead of me.
Wait. Did they say Monster?
“Is that him?”
More people look my way.
“It’s him, the one on the news!” one shouts.
“The bastard responsible for hurting all those poor orphans?” another asks, loudly.
Too loudly.
Orphans? What now?
What the fuck is going on?
“Gerard,” one repeats.
“Gerard?”
They’re repeating my name with horror and hatred, and I can almost feel the swell of the mob mentality.
I’m not one to run away, but I wouldn’t even know who to target right now. My gun is safely secured in the harness, but if they’re ridiculing me for being violent and bringing violence to Paris, drawing a weapon will only throw fuel on the fire.
My family doesn’t target civilians.
I turn to face them, finding a wall of people behind me. That quickly, they’ve gone from ambivalence to hatred, swarming and screaming. Some are throwing things and others are taking pictures with their phones. Someone pushes me and I shove back, which elicits a scream. “Don’t let him hurt us! Get him!”
What?
“Hey, I’m not hurting anyone.” I don’t want to draw attention to myself. That’s not how I work.
A big, burly guy puts his hand on me, and I lose it. I’m no fucking pacifist. I hit him so hard I break his jaw. He falls to the ground screaming, holding his jaw in his hands. The crowd presses in on me. I can’t breathe. I’m smothered by their hands on me. I’ve never seen these people before.
