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“Time traveler,” I whisper. The words are barely audible. I point toward the woods. “There was a time traveler there.”
“You’re sure?” Cecelia asks, lifting her sunglasses to look in the direction I’m pointing. Even from here we can see the woman’s clothes, lying in a heap on the ground.
“I’m sure,” I reply. Why was she here? What does she want? I’m never going to feel safe until I’m certain I can defend myself.
“Even if I can’t have a gun in the hospital,” I say to Cecelia, leaning on my walker and trying to catch my breath, “that doesn’t mean I can’t be taught how to use one, does it?”
She glances from me to that pile of clothes by the woods. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”
* * *
Rehabilitation of my weak, broken body becomes secondary from then on. From sun-up to sundown, my focus is on learning to fight. Cecelia hires two different specialists: a Navy SEAL who teaches me how to shoot and use a knife, and an Israeli soldier who teaches me hand-to-hand combat.
What I appreciate about both men is that neither act like I’m a silly, scared girl. They both treat me as if I’m someone going to war, which is truer than they can even imagine. I’m taught to throw a dagger from thirty feet away, and when I can finally hit a bullseye with my right hand, I’m forced to train with my left. Using dummies, I’m taught how to immobilize my opponent, how to break a neck, where to punch to kill someone immediately—corner of the jaw or nasal cavity. Where to stab someone in the back to puncture a lung, useful because it prevents them from screaming. How to slit a throat, useful for the same reason. When Paul, the SEAL, starts showing me how to stab someone in the chest, I wave him off. “I already know that one.”
Holding a knife in my hands makes me feel calm, and also powerful. It makes me wish I could go back to 1918 with my new knowledge, solely to watch Gustave die. At night I think about how I will punish Coron—how I can manage to trap him and kill him slowly. It’s the lullaby that sings me to sleep on the nights when rage leaves me unable to find Henri, when I’m worried he’ll find me so changed he won’t want me.
But given it’s the rage itself that’s changed me, and that the more I allow it, the more of it I feel, I sometimes wonder if I’ve escaped captivity only to poison myself instead. Killing comes as naturally to me as walking must have, once upon a time, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
Henri will fix it, I promise myself. Everything that’s broken inside me won’t stay this way once I’m with him again. It can’t.
“So, tell me about this fiancé of yours,” says Rob, on the treadmill beside mine, where I find him most days now. He has a bit of a crush—perhaps because I’m the first female who’s ever shot him down. “Is he famous? He must be famous.”
I smile. “No, not in the least.”
“Well then, can you tell me why he isn’t here?” Rob asks, arching a brow. “No offense, but under the circumstances, the guy should be here.”
“He’s…fighting. He’s in the military,” I reply. “He’ll be home soon.”
“Well, if something changes,” Rob says, “let me know.”
“Nothing’s going to change,” I reply.
Inside I say a silent prayer that it’s actually true.
* * *
At the end of the second week, Louis comes to collect me, as Cecelia promised he would. Though I’m not ready to run a marathon, I can walk a mile on the treadmill at a relatively normal pace, which is more than I can say for Rob.
I pop my head in the gym as I’m leaving, clad in the jeans and a t-shirt I purchased here the summer before. Rob sees me and comes over, still using his walker.
“That’s just cruel,” he says, “walking in here in those jeans just to say goodbye.”
I smile, choosing to ignore that. “It’s been fun. Good luck with everything.”
He nods at Anna, his assistant, who hands something to Louis. “Anna just gave your bodyguard all my numbers. If things don’t work out with Henri, give me a call. I’ve got another month here before I start my European tour. You can be my plus one, no strings attached.” He grins. “I mean, I’d prefer it if there were strings, but I’ll live if there aren’t.”
I laugh and lean forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Good luck, Rob.”
“Henri’s a lucky man,” he says. “I hope he realizes it.”
I force a smile. The truth is that I’m the lucky one. I just hope my luck continues to hold.
* * *
I’m taken from the hospital to another of Cecelia’s beloved spa appointments, where I’m waxed and scrubbed until I shine, where my hair is cut and my nails are done and my brows are plucked. From there, I’m taken to a gorgeous flat, just off the Champs-Élysées, with all my belongings waiting for me in the master suite. I know I should relish it all, but in a day’s time, I’ll be back with Henri, and I hunger for it so much I can barely notice anything else.
On the day of my departure, I rise early and find myself pacing, too excited to sit still. When Cecelia arrives with a bagful of croissants, I take one and sit with her in the parlor, though I’m too nervous to eat.
