Three
I flew across the grass, feet pounding, arms pumping. I wove in and out of the trees, cutting zigzag lines to throw off the invisible shooter. A cramp gripped my side, but I kept pushing. What if Malcolm was wrong? What if the gunman had bad aim or sneezed as he pulled the trigger? I zigzagged again.
Benches and tourists were a blur as I zipped past. I wanted to reach out and grab the darkness like a cloak and wrap it around me, but the blazing lights from the Eiffel ruined any chances of melting into the night.
Hide. That’s what I needed to do. I pushed harder, almost to the tower. I ducked behind a group of older men out for a stroll, and then after a glance behind my shoulder, I slid behind a cart and a man selling roses. Immediately I slumped to the ground, my chest heaving. Sweat streamed off me and dripped into my mouth. I tasted salt. Tears too?
I breathed in and out. What the hell just happened?
Someone touched my shoulder with a soft hand. I scrambled back. A man with corn silk hair offered me a rose. The owner of the cart. I reached out to grab the stem, trying to miss the thorns. He spoke in French, and I nodded.
“Merci,” I said.
“Trouble?” he asked, his brow crinkling with concern. Light danced in his eyes. He seemed perfectly content to sell roses all day. Just a kind man with probably a simple life, maybe some grandchildren an hour away. I couldn’t get him involved.
“No. I just need to rest.” I assured him, shaking my head.
He didn’t seem to understand and went back to selling roses. I lifted the bloom to my nose and let the soft petals brush against my skin, the sweet smell giving me a false sense of security. Was I safe? Had the mad man with a license to kill gone home? Or was he after Malcolm? Damn it. When would thirty minutes be up? I let my head fall against my knees and tried to ignore the guilt. If I hadn’t been all cute and flirty and tied Malcolm up, he’d be much better off. He might not have gotten shot. Wait a second. Why did he get shot? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
With each painful minute, I pictured Malcolm, running, falling, getting shot. And then the silent movie would start again and the scene would play over and over. After what seemed like an extremely long time, I pushed up and peeked around the cart. My legs cramped and my shoulders felt tight and sore. I had to be safe, right? I hadn’t heard any gunshot pings since I ran away, since Malcolm got shot, since our date got ruined.
With a slight limp, I walked the perimeter of the Eiffel, searching for Malcolm. It would be hard to miss a guy in his underwear. With every flash of brown hair, my heart leaped. But it was never him. I rubbed my shoulders, ignoring the fear squeezing the breath out of my chest.
Finally, I leaned against a tree, letting the crowds of people blur in and out. The boisterous sounds of the late-night crowd faded into white noise, and the nice man closed up his cart and left for home. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed or if I even nodded off here and there, but he never came.
Malcolm never showed.
I convinced myself he decided to seek medical help, or that he found the shooter and wrestled him to the ground and turned him over to the police. Or that it was too much for him to make it to the Eiffel, and he was safe at home, wherever that was. Why hadn’t I gotten his phone number?
Clouds passed over the moon, casting a shadow over the city of lights. Shivers racked my body. The crowds thinned. Thirty minutes had passed several times, and I had to go home.
The next morning, I woke up in a haze. My head pounded and my heart ached. Somehow I’d made it home last night, past Dad who’d fallen asleep reading a Dan Brown novel, and into the shower. But no matter how hard I’d scrubbed, I couldn’t wash away the memory of what happened. I’d stayed up late into the night, worrying.
Throwing aside any dirty clothes, I dug around in my closet and found the box. The one full of different spy gadgets—gifts from Dad, of course. A beginner’s code-breaker book that I hadn’t even cracked the spine on yet, an obnoxious flower pin that doubled as an audio recorder, and I couldn’t possibly forget about the black ski cap Dad wanted me to wear as a Spy Games’ staffer. I was hoping to find a bulletproof vest or weapon of some sort. Not that we needed weapons for Spy Games. The wannabe spies were placed in groups and traipsed across Paris together. I handed out coded clues at the Louvre and later tortured the hostage. Pretty boring, actually. But people seemed to love it.
Malcolm. Thoughts of him hovered in the room, not letting go, not leaving me alone. I liked Malcolm. I liked the lopsided grin he wore when he took my order every morning, already knowing what I wanted. I liked his polite and kind words when he waited for Aimee and me to finish chatting before he presented us the bill. And I especially liked that he was a cute boy who could speak English.
Leaning against the wall, I breathed deep and tried to calm my beating heart. Why did I act so impulsively last night? I could’ve at least asked him some questions first or talked about my hurt feelings in a rational way. Not put him on trial. What had I said? Punishable by death?
I had to tell Dad. He might wrap me in bubble wrap and metal armor to keep me safe, but he’d know what to do about Malcolm. I entered the kitchen. Dad was buried in the morning newspaper, his legs sprawled out to the side of the table. He had no idea I’d almost died last night. I peeled a banana, took one bite, then threw it away. Instead, I poured coffee and drew comfort from three extra sugars.
Finally, he peered over the top of the paper for a second, his wave of dark hair slicked to the side. “Morning, Savvy.”
I had to get his nose out of the newspaper. “We need to talk.”
“Sure thing, what’s up?” But he kept reading, as usual.
“It’s serious.” More serious than whatever drama he was reading about.
He folded the newspaper and looked at me with scared eyes, scared in the way that he might have to buy tampons or something. My mouth went dry and I struggled to find the right words.
“Savvy?” He put the newspaper down, his full attention on me.
“Right. Something kinda happened last night.”
“With Malcolm?” Dad sat straighter and his voice became sharp. “If he so much as touched a hair on your head—”
“Whoa! Calm down.” I held up my hands. “Malcolm didn’t do anything.”
Warmth spread through my chest. Dad hadn’t shown he cared this much since I lost my luggage on our flight to France. I’d freaked out because it had the scrapbook my friends made me as a goodbye gift, and he’d been so concerned. I looked at a clump of dried gel hanging from a hair above Dad’s ear, anywhere but at his eyes. I didn’t want to see his reaction to me getting shot at.
“We were walking near the Eiffel Tower. He had this wonderful picnic—”
Dad lowered his eyebrows until they practically touched his nose. “Did you say the Eiffel Tower?”
“Yeah, um.” I searched for the right words but they wouldn’t come.
“There was a shooting last night by the Eiffel. Did you see or hear anything?”
“Pff, No.” Crap. That was my chance to tell all. Why did I blow it? Maybe Dad knew something. “Did anyone get hurt? Were any bodies found?”
“The news didn’t say, but I’m glad you’re safe. Maybe you should stay home today and skip Spy Games.” Dad picked up the paper again like the decision was made.
I knew right then I couldn’t say a word about what happened. Not if I ever wanted any kind of social life again. I’d have to take care of Malcolm myself. Somehow.
“Oh, man, but I was so excited for Spy Games today!”
“Really?” Dad perked up. He’d been trying to get me excited about his new line of work since we’d arrived. He must have recognized my less than enthusiastic interactions with the wannabe spies, I mean clients.
“Definitely.”
“Well, okay. But I want you to be careful.” His eyes narrowed as if suddenly deciding to be interested in my life, my real life, not just what he saw on the outside. “So what ha
ppened on your date?”
“You could say it was an adventure.” More like a horror movie. But I didn’t even care anymore why Malcolm asked me on the date. I cared if I’d accidentally had a hand in killing him.
Dad straightened the paper. “Ah, here it is. The shooting. Right next to the stories about some big pastry extravaganza contest and a dog show. Oh your mom would’ve loved the dog show, all the fluffy dogs prancing around....”
His voice trailed off and the white elephant (a.k.a. Mom) that had wedged itself permanently between Dad and me made its appearance. He gazed off, memories of past times flashing across his face, times when she was around. My legs jiggled up and down, fighting off the dread. I missed Mom too, but I had to know Malcolm made it.
“Dad? The shooting?”
“Oh, right. The paper says the police found evidence of a shooting and lots of blood. But nothing else. No sign of anything. They’re combing the Seine for a body.”
Did that mean Malcolm might have died? Maybe someone killed him, wrapped him up in the quilt and threw him in the river? My face prickled and fear spiraled up through my chest. I leaned over and fiddled with my shoelaces. I left a guy half-naked by the Eiffel Tower last night, alone and bleeding. I wanted to rush the three steps across the kitchenette and hang my head over the sink and puke my guts out.