Thirty
“Come on,” Malcolm called over his shoulder. “We’re almost halfway. And there’s a small café!”
I ran to catch up with him. I might not have any real spy skills but I was a teenage girl with a healthy dose of gut instinct, and my gut was telling me to get the hell out of there. Fast. At the same time, my chest ached deep inside. I couldn’t ignore the overwhelming sadness that he probably didn’t really like me when I was totally crushing on him.
At the tiny but adorable café halfway up, I begged off to use the bathroom. Locked in the stall, I sat on the toilet and brought my legs up to my chest. I took little comfort in the feel of the metal tray pressed against my chest. A plan formed. Escape here, go to Jolie’s and rescue Aimee and Marie. Have Jolie arrested and go to the Extravaganza to complete Mom’s mission. And then forget all this ever happened.
First, I had to escape. I went to the door of the bathroom and peeked outside, hoping to find Malcolm waiting for me with two drinks. But what I saw confirmed my fears. He stood with his back to me at a postcard rack. A man in a suit coat stood a couple feet away. Malcolm passed him an envelope, probably a payoff. They were talking to each other, acting like two strangers, who just happened to meet up in an ancient church. My feet itched to sprint across the room and down the stairs to freedom, but what if more goons waited down in the hallways, hiding behind statues, arms ready to grab me. I sprinted the only place left to go. Up.
And up.
And up.
The rest of the four hundred stairs.
Fear chased me, always a step away, ready to grab me. Finally at the top, I collapsed in a corner and curled into a ball. Every footstep on the stairs, every echo of a male voice, my heart rate spiked and visions of my death played with my emotions.
I stayed huddled against the cold comfort of the mighty cathedral and hoped God was watching out for me. The grimacing demon and other winged gargoyles sent shivers through my body. I pictured Jolie’s face carved into one of them, complete with wings, horns, and glowing red eyes. The devil himself.
After rubbing the cramps out of my calves, I stood and limped over to the wire mesh surrounding the entire top of the tower. Paris spread out before me with its stone buildings, lush gardens, and the Eiffel in the distance. How many more times would I be running for my life in this city until I found answers? Did Paris hold something against me? Did my terrible accent offend her? No. I wished it were that simple. We were here because of Mom’s apartment. Mom. That was who this all came down to. My trouble started when I opened the package. All the pieces were connected to her secrets and lies. Jolie, Malcolm, and Aimee. Not sure how they were all connected, but I’d start with rescuing Aimee and Marie.
The golden sun rested in the lower half of the sky, but I couldn’t find warmth in its rays. A permanent chill had descended on my shoulders. I straightened up, needing to brave the world outside the cathedral and book it over to Jolie’s before he came home. Surely, Malcolm had left. I clomped, ran, walked, dragged myself down the four hundred stairs, only stubbing my toe twice and tripping three times. Before leaving the cathedral I searched the area, and only when I made sure there was no sign of Malcolm or his buddy, I grabbed a latte at a small café across the street. The hot liquid trailed down my throat and spread its desperately needed warmth through my body.
I texted Dad saying the mission had failed. The cathedral was a no go for Spy Games. Then I got on the Metro to head back closer to home, walking distance from le maison de Pouffant. The house of Pouffant. Was that even his home? I didn’t know. And I didn’t care as long as I found Aimee.
At the house, I peered around the hedge, trying not to bump into the sharp twigs. The place seemed empty—no muted lights through the window, no clinking of teacups from the backyard—nothing that I could hear or see. I gripped the straps of my backpack and studied the house. No sneaking around this time. The best way would be to act natural, like I belonged. The neighbors wouldn’t question a visitor opening the backdoor. No slinking or acting like a criminal.
With quick, sure steps, I marched across the small side yard to the backyard not even glancing at the henhouse. I peered through a window. No one. I hesitated at the backdoor and listened. Confident Jolie wasn’t home, I stepped inside into the lingering smell of cinnamon. Not surprising for the house of a pastry chef.
A girl’s jacket lay across a worn plaid loveseat. A small piano wedged in the corner had music for the theme song from Harry Potter on the top. A chess game sat on the table, half played. Framed pictures of family were on the wall. My chest tightened as memories from Pennsylvania rushed back. Family times with my mom and my dad. Happy times. Even if they weren’t perfect. I wanted that back. Being in Jolie’s home, which felt cozy and happy, pricked my heart.
Enough. A good spy does not let emotions cloud her mission. Not wanting to wake up a snoozing pastry chef, I crept through the downstairs. The living room led to an open but tiny kitchen with room for a table for four.
“Marie?” I whispered, then scolded myself. I needed to sweep the whole house and be smart about this. The stairs were at the back of the kitchen. I tested each wooden step before putting my entire weight on them. At the top, I could go right or left. I poked my head in the door on the right. Must be Jolie’s with the clean room and professionally made bed. Pouffant did not pass over the details, which scared me.
I tiptoed across the tiny hall. A car door shut outside. Voices. Familiar ones. My body froze up, and I couldn’t get my legs to move. Fear of getting caught spread like wildfire across my skin and I had to force a swallow. A tiny sob escaped. Why didn’t I bring rope to escape out the second story window? Or a smoke bomb?
The front door opened, and a current of French streamed into the house, up the stairs, and wrapped around my head, entangling my legs. I was trapped, too afraid to move in case they heard me. Maybe they’d returned for their sweaters before going back out to dinner.
The stairs creaked.
Damn. My body unfroze and survival instinct took over. I shimmied into the bathroom and whipped back and forth for a spot to hide. The closet filled with towels and sheets was too small. A voice cleared on the stairs. A deep growly voice, one that I recognized.
With a gulp, I stepped behind the flowery curtain into the shower stall and tried to control my breathing so I didn’t sound like a girl terrified for her life. I could see the outline of the sink and toilet through the curtain and realized that anyone could see me too. I slithered to the bottom of the tub and lay down, my legs bent and turned sideways.
Jolie whistled in the hall.