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I pick up the gun and fire.
42
HENRI
Stevens is dead. They shot him only an hour after we were caught, and the rest of us had no choice but to keep moving, bound together as we are with a German rifle at our backs. By the time we stop for the night, we’ve been marching for twenty-four hours straight. If I were to guess I’d say we’re heading northeast. Probably toward the labor camps in Germany.
“We’re moving fast now,” Quinn says to Price as we’re led out of town. “Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
We stop in Mirepoix and are handed over to a commander there, who has a much larger group of prisoners under his command. We’re held there nearly a week, unfed, huddling in a ditch for warmth, as more prisoners arrive. Occasionally, someone is dragged into the square, seemingly at random, and shot. It’s how the Germans remind the townspeople that even here in the free zone, they are not actually free.
At the end of the week, we are led onto a road heading east. We walk in silence all day. It’s only when the soldiers are off cooking their evening meal and setting up their tents that we dare speak.
“You’re looking unhappy these days,” Quinn says.
I glance at him. It’s sometimes hard to tell if he’s mentally defective or just endlessly optimistic. “I imagine we’re all looking pretty unhappy these days.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Your girl will wait.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I reply. In truth, though, what scares me most does relate back to Sarah. He’d just never believe it if I told him.
I’m worried she’ll come get me herself.
43
SARAH
We arrive at the first checkpoint outside Saint Antoine just after sunrise. I never dreamed I’d set out for Paris with a suitcase that holds mostly food, leaving the children’s things behind, but we can’t drive once we reach the city—it’ll invite too much suspicion—and with Cece in my arms, I won’t be able to carry much else.
Though it’s February, I’m sweating as if it’s the height of summer. Nerves, possibly, or perhaps just the fact that I have wads of cash stuffed between my skin and the dress.
All my confidence from the night before is gone. The desire to kill is still there, and still strong, but when I faced down Roche and Claudette, I only had to worry about myself. Even with Cece there, I was confident I could take on Dr. Nadeau. Now, though, there are three children to protect, and at any one of these stops it could all go awry. I have two knives on me and a gun hidden under the seat, but I’m still human. I can only kill so many people at once and will be assuring my own death if I attempt it. What happens to the children then?
The whole plan feels increasingly uncertain. Though I managed to get Edouard’s location from the monsignor’s office—violent threats once again saving the day—there’s no guarantee Marie is there, since Edouard is apparently still a priest. But whether she’s there or not, Edouard owes my family a debt. He’ll find a place for us to stay or pay heavily for his failure.
The line is backed up. My gut tightens as I watch a soldier force the couple ahead of me to get out of their car and walk to the side of the road. Their luggage is removed from the trunk, and I begin to panic.
What if they do the same to us? Time travel would be useless here. Yes, I could jump back a day or a week, but I’d still land here, an hour from Saint Antoine. Who would I even warn?
The soldier off to the side gestures me around the car being searched.
“Destination?” he asks, taking my papers.
I swallow. “Paris,” I say. “To see my brother.”
He looks over the first pass, mine, and then someone begins yelling behind him. Both our heads jerk at the sound. The man who was pulled from his car is down on his knees and the woman is weeping. Already that same fury is coming over me. If I didn’t have to protect these three children, I’d grab my gun and fire as many shots as I could.
The soldier’s eyes return to my papers, and then he frowns. “There’s an error,” he says, in heavily accented French. “You will need to pull off the road.”
My heart beats so hard I feel sick from it. “An error?” I ask.
“There is no stamp on this,” he says, holding my travel papers in the air.
The whole world seems to still in this moment. Roche screwed us over. Intentionally. He had to have known that stamp was important. And there are no good options available to me. If my travel papers are bad, the children’s are as well. If he intentionally messed up the travel passes, then their passports are probably no good either.
My hand slides beneath my seat, feeling for the cool metal of the gun. “Oh, the magistrate’s office must have made a mistake. I’ll just go back to get it fixed.”
He starts to shake his head when the sound of gunfire draws our attention. The male of the couple, maybe forty at most, lies on the ground bleeding, and the woman weeps and falls to her knees beside him.
