“And I’m telling you, again,” John says with a trace of a chuckle in his voice, “that you can’t judge anyone just by their name. It could be that his mother is French and he took on his father’s last name.”
“But, Butch?”
John shrugs. “Maybe he’s a Robert Redford fan?”
I shake my head. “Redford was the Sundance Kid. Newman was Butch Cassidy.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re wrong there, missy. Why do you think Newman named his festival the Sundance Film Festival?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Beats me. And Missy?”
“Miss Missy?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m also right. You wanna bet?”
“Fine. What are the stakes?”
“If I win, I get a million bucks. And a house by the lake. And a lifetime supply of golf balls.”
I snort. “And if I win?”
“Dinner with me and a chance to win back your heart.”
I glance at him, suddenly somber. Truth was, my heart has never left him. But yeah, I still needed time to get my head on straight. “Seems fair.”
“Newman was Butch Cassidy,” says our driver in English, heavy on the French accent. He’s looking at us in his review mirror while we sit at a red light. “The lady wins.”
“And why should I believe you?” asks John.
The driver holds up his phone. “Took me two seconds to check.”
“Fine. And keep your eyes on the road.”
The driver grins and turns forward.
I shrug. “Like the nosy French guy says, I win.”
“Then I owe you a dinner,” says John.
“So much for your lifetime supply of golf balls.”
“I would rather have a lifetime supply of—”
“Don’t say it...”
“Love,” he finishes.
“Sooo cheesy.” I laugh, and elbow him in the ribs.
In the front seat, our driver shakes his head.
I settle in with John, who’s holding my hand in such a way as to suggest that, yeah, he seriously thinks he might never hold it again. His grip is all-encompassing, smothering, and perfect.
We’re silent as the taxi continues on, satisfied in each other’s company. I find my mind racing back to the events of the safe house. The truth: if not for Ayden corroborating Julia’s vision with one of his own, I’d be certain this is a setup. As we ride in silence, I decide to do a little advance scouting, letting John know my intentions.
He nods and gives me space.
Although I adore the little hummingbird, I decide to try something out of Hope’s book: the tiger moth. I don’t know why, the bird would have worked just fine, but I guess using the tiger moth feels like it connects me to her more.
I call up the moth and follow it as it races well ahead of the taxi, which has gotten stuck in tight Paris traffic. Cars, streets, and buildings glide by below us as we cruise across the city. The Eiffel Tower catches my eye far off to the left, rising like a steel Christmas tree into the night sky, but the moth swerves the other way. Within seconds, the moth finds the address—a shop—and I slip inside the structure. Voices speak in rapid French. I tune in to them and discern two men and a woman. One of the guys is obviously a salesman showing the other man and the woman an array of engagement rings and wedding sets. The salesman speaks perfect Parisian French in that special, musical way that’s responsible for Paris being known as the City of Love.
As I listen to the three voices discussing the rings and the happy, celebratory tone in their voices, I realize I’ve missed out on that. I thought I was going to have that with John. He even promised to go with me to pick out a ring whenever we finished up with the Babineaux operation, but instead of picking out rings, he disappeared, betrayed us, and then died, sending my dreams crashing down along with him. As those thoughts enter my head, I lose the connection that I had and find myself back in the cab sitting beside John. And I have to remember that he never betrayed us. John was the one who was betrayed by Simms.
“What did you pick up?” John asks.
“Place seems legit.”
“A jewelry store?”
I nod.
“Ky, we need to make this look real so that we don’t ruin our cover.”
I swallow the lump in my throat at the realization that John and I are going to act like we’re picking out an engagement ring. “I understand.”
Minutes later, we enter the shop as a happy, playful, effusive couple. There is absolutely nothing about the man who greets us that gives any indication that he is anything but a genuine Parisian, despite his redneck name. John and I fall into our roles perfectly. We are the consummate engaged couple shopping for a ring. In fact, John is so convincing that when he whistles and asks to see a particularly gorgeous two-carat oval in a crown setting with sapphire chips all around it, I really think he is going to buy it for me.
John smiles. “It’s exquisite. May I inquire about the price?”
“Eleven thousand Euro,” the salesman says.
“I hope to get it for nine thousand Euros or as close as you can get to ten thousand dollars.”
The salesman has a good-natured laugh. It’s obvious he enjoys haggling. “Ten thousand dollars? Did you come in here to rob me, or purchase a ring for this exquisite woman? You should be delighted to spend a minimum of eleven thousand Euro for such a beautiful creature.”
“Perhaps you are not the man I should be talking to.” John leans back, examining his nails.
“I am the only man here.”
“Then we’re in the wrong place. I was told that Butch Sanders has an extravagant selection of rings for ten thousand dollars.”
The man’s expression changes. His eyes go wary, but his jovial tone remains the same. “Whoever this Butch Sanders is, he tells you lies.”
“He is a very good friend. Perhaps we should go to another shop instead?”
The man motions for us to follow him. “Ahh… Monsieur, Butch Sanders is the man who sold this store to me. He has not been here in many years. He did leave some of his relics behind if you would like to look at them.”
Once we are in the back of the shop, the salesman’s entire presence changes. In very plain English, he asks, “You’re from the President of the United States, then?”
Right. I was not ready for that curveball, but John takes it in stride.
“Of course.”
“Very well,” says Butch. “What do you need to know?”
Chapter Twenty-two
“You wouldn’t believe how irritating it is to have to do all of the things I have to do as the daughter of the President of the United States,” Julia says, with a roll of her eyes.
Ayden walks alongside her, listening, amazed that such a simple question of his has opened up a floodgate. Evidently, Julia Dennison never has anyone to talk to. He doesn’t mind, as he likes watching her animated expressions while she talks. He likes watching her lips move and wonders what it would be like to kiss them. He fancies the tone of her voice and the way her eyes light up. If he takes a moment to analyze things, he’ll realize that Julia is all of the things that attracted him to Kylie, but something about Julia draws him in beyond Kylie; truly, she fascinates him rather than simply making his blood overheat.
“I would love to just be a regular twenty-one-year-old living it up on a college campus somewhere, maybe here in Paris, drinking beer, meeting guys and, well, you know…”
“I always wanted that, too, but I never had it.”
“I know you never had it, Ayden,” she says. “It’s okay. I don’t really know what I’m talking about. I’m just rattling on about stuff and sounding like an idiot.”
“You don’t sound like an idiot at all and I don’t mind you rattling on. I love listening to you.”
“You’re about the only one.” She laughs. “Everyone has been telling me to shut up for years. I even drove Grant Simms nuts.”
The mention of Simms’
name puts an instant damper on their lighthearted mood. For Ayden, this entire affair has been shrouded in all sorts of darkness and evil, and Julia has been the brightest light. Indeed, her presence provides a welcome relief. On impulse, he reaches out and takes one of her hands in his. She shoots him a timid look, but lets him hold her hand. They walk in silence together for a while.
“Look at us,” she whispers. “You and me, hand in hand in Paris.”
“It’s nice,” Ayden says, smiling. “I’d just as soon not have to go back.”
“You and me both.” She stops and looks at him. “I mean, here I am with you and we’re working on an extremely dangerous mission and we could get killed and everything, but I’d rather be here with you than doing presidential daughter things, you know?”
“I know.” Ayden grins. “But we won’t get killed.”
“Well, I know that.” She rakes her hair off her face, a bit of blush in her cheeks. “I mean, up to a point.”
“The point where you don’t see the future?”
“Right.”
“You’ve seen how some of this turns out?”
“Some, not all. Like I said, dwelling too much on the future sucks up my present. But I do know we won’t get killed. Hurt, maybe, but not killed.”
“Well, being hurt is no big deal. We’ve got John.”
Even as the words fly from his tongue, it hits him that in spite of what the team thinks about John, in spite of what they have been led to believe, he is glad to have their colleague back on the team. As much as Ayden hates to admit it, watching Hope trust him so readily proved convincing. Something about that kid…
Ayden watches her for several seconds; indeed, her moist pink lips draw his gaze and the soft sound of her breathing makes all the anxiety about the mission fade away. On impulse, he leans in and presses his lips into hers.
She groans, responding to his kiss by wrapping her arms around the back of his neck and drawing him close.
For several minutes, they explore each other’s mouths. Ayden’s knees start to weaken. He has never felt such intense sensations racing throughout his entire body, mind, and spirit. When he draws away from the kiss and looks down into Julia’s eyes, he catches a sparkle in them that matches the fireworks going off all over the place inside his head and heart.
“I knew you were going to do that.” She winks.
“Of course you did.”
“You think maybe we should get our heads back in the game?” says Julia. “There is some serious shit going down and we’re in the middle of it.”
“I’m also in the middle of this…” Ayden kisses her again, deeper.
Finally, she pushes him away. “We need to get back to Ky.”
“Mmm. Who?”
She giggles. “Your partners, Romeo. Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-three
My mouth is so dry that I can’t pull together enough spit to wet a postage stamp.
We’re driving outside of Paris in a car rented with bogus identities, along a winding road that weaves beside the Marne River. I fidget, watching the French countryside pass by outside the window until we arrive in a tiny village called Coulombs-en-Valois, where we turn off and ascend a long hill. At the top, a small asylum occupies the otherwise open grassland of the summit. John drives to the end of the dirt and gravel road, where only two old Peugeot sedans reside.
We get out, and I find myself barely able to walk.
The construction is older, as if it has been here since the fifties. A relatively fresh coat of white paint makes the buildings look a little less like the set of a horror film, though a tower-like structure on the right, perhaps a crumbling grain silo, causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I imagine the place as a farm many decades ago.
So far, everything looks the way Butch Sanders said it would—when he described the place where we’d find my mother.
The worst of my nerves picks that moment to crash down on me.
“You all right, Ky?” John asks, wrapping a strong arm around my shoulders and guiding me forward.
I am so consumed with worry that I don’t even notice the gesture for a moment. I look up at him, almost bewildered, and catch sight of Ayden and Julia behind us, also walking with his arm around her back. I blink, shake my head. Since when did they become an item?
Never mind that, Ky.
I’m about to go in and visit a woman I haven’t seen in a long, long time. She’d disappeared, no doubt Simms’ doing, several years ago. Even before that, her illness snatches her away from my father and me. But now, I’m not sure it’s ever been an illness. Grant Simms was likely always a snake. Did he convince my father that an illness caused Mom’s condition when, in reality, he’d done something to her?
“Ky?” John repeats.
“Um.” My mind races back to take in the words he’s spoken moments before. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“It’s going to be fine,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.
When Butch Sanders made the assumption that we’d been sent by the president, it sent me for a loop. The first question that popped into my head was: what does the President of the United States have to do with my mother? It isn’t until after John and I rejoin Ayden and Julia that I remember the president adopted Julia from Grant Simms. At some point, someone has hidden Mom away to avoid embarrassing questions concerning Julia. To the world, Julia is the natural-born child of the president and his wife, rather than the daughter of a heavily medicated woman in an insane asylum hidden in the French countryside.
The front door is a heavy slab of ancient wood covered in too many layers of drab whitish-gray paint. It creaks unnervingly loud when John pushes it open. We step into a lobby that looks stolen from the set of a 1960s horror film. Everything’s a horrid shade of not-quite green. A woman sits behind a steel desk at the end of a row of chairs along the wall, dutifully ignoring us for her paperback novel.
When we approach, her eyes widen. She picks up the phone receiver, presses a button, and speaks rapidly in a low tone before pasting a fake smile on her face and greeting us. She thinks she’s slick, but I can hear low tones. She’s alerted someone in charge of our arrival. And she uses our real names.
“We’re here to see—” John begins.
“Never mind that,” I say to John, pulling him aside. “She knows why we’re here. In fact, I suspect the whole place knows we’re here by now.”
“How...”
“Obviously, they’ve been warned of our arrival.”
“But of course,” a man says as he steps through a door behind the receptionist’s desk. “We’ve been expecting you.”
The instant I hear that, my audial instincts go into full alert mode, in spite of my nerves. Are they expecting us or “expecting us,” as in, are Simms’ people or Secret Service agents waiting to snatch us up? After all, we do have the daughter of the president along with us. It is likely that word has gone out that she has been kidnapped, even if not publicly. In a way, she has, but she is the one who set it up and came along willingly, so it’s really a case of sneaking out and not telling her parents about it. What kid doesn’t try that at least once, right?
Except in this scenario, I could land in jail for a very long time.
Satisfied that I don’t hear anything suggesting we’ve walked into a trap, I do a quick check with Ayden, who, undoubtedly, has done the same thing. Well, not the same thing, since he’s not an audial. But his expression remains calm. The slight shake of his head is enough to verify my read.
In the time it takes the man to walk around the front desk and reach his hand toward John, Ayden and I complete our scan. I notice John hesitate a moment, run through some sort of a mental process, then accept the handshake. He’s still afraid to touch people. Watching him hesitate like that, out of instinct, reassures me there is truth in John’s story.
Get over it, Ky. He’s telling the truth.
“I’m Jacques Revere,” the man says.
“John
Herrel. This is an associate of mine, Ayden Connors, and these two ladies are Julia and Kylie―”
“Cain,” Jacques says. “The resemblance to their mother is uncanny.”
Ayden gives me a nod, as if to say: That’s why the receptionist acted so strangely.
I nod back, but mostly my mind is reeling. Jacques Revere has said ‘their mother.’
She’s really my sister. My sister…
“Your mother has her good days and her bad days, you understand?” Jacques smiles, but with a serious expression in his eyes. “How long has it been since the two of you have seen her?”
“Never,” Julia responds, which breaks my heart, even if her response is expected.
“Several years, when she was still at Windy Reed, back in the States.”
Jacques’s eyebrows raise. “Ah. Well, she has improved some since her arrival here, but you shouldn’t expect too much. She may or may not recognize you. She may or may not speak. You understand?”
“I understand,” I say.
“Well then, let’s go.” Jacques motions for us to follow him.
“Ayden and I will hang out here if you don’t mind,” John says. “Too many people might overwhelm her.”
It is a generous gesture on his part.
Julia and I follow Jacques down the corridor, eventually stopping at a doorway which opens into a room a little nicer than a typical hospital room, but not by much. The rampant drabness continues. This place could suck the life out of anyone.
“Ms. Cain?” Jacques announces as we step through the door, and I see my mother for the first time in years. “Your daughters are here to see you.”
“My babies?” she asks, turning to look at us.
Mom’s hair is much longer than I remember, and now streaked with gray. She’s still pretty, but her skin can’t help but show the passage of time. Her expression flickers between confusion and determination as she stares at us. Two small flowers sit on the sill of a window overlooking a rolling meadow.
It is the first time I’ve heard her voice in years, and I can’t hold back the tears that gush from my eyes and stream down my cheeks.
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