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When I come across a line of older model cars, I throw a cautionary glance over my shoulder. The coast is clear. The address Dad gave me, and this Gabriel Lacroix guy, apparently resides in the south of France near Montpellier. While it’s a hard rule amongst the members of the Red Ravens to only steal from other criminals, I can’t very well walk to the hideout location in my banged-up state. I don’t want to have to boost some hard-working blue-collar worker’s ride, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I walk up to the driver’s side of a light grey 2007 Peugeot 208. Its front and back bumpers are dented to hell, but she looks like she’ll handle just fine.
Reaching into the inside pocket of my jacket, I pull out my lockpicking kit. Everything fits in a discreet black leather case no bigger than most large wallets. I’ve got a handful of differently shaped picks and tension bars of various thicknesses to choose from. I’m quick to select one of each, working on the door as nimbly as I can. It’s hard getting it on the first try because my hands are still shaking with adrenaline, but my second attempt pops the lock free.
I hastily slip into the front seat and get to work on the ignition. It’s far less eloquent than the door, a matter of jamming my longest pick in at the right angle and wriggling it around until the engine rumbles to life.
The gas tank is three-quarters full. If the traffic’s good, I’ll be able to reach Montpellier within eight or so hours. I hit the pedal and pull away from the curb. The more distance I put between myself and the scene of the crime, the better. If I don’t make any stops and drive through the night, I may get there by morning.
Even when I get out onto the highway, I refuse to let myself relax. I keep my eyes on the road and anxiously fiddle with my silver necklace, turning the drop-shaped pendant over and over again between my fingers. I concentrate on my end goal and the man I need to find. I don’t know who he is or how Dad knows him, but his name echoes inside my skull.
Find Gabriel Lacroix.
He’ll keep you safe.
Chapter 2
Gabriel
Odette crosses her arms and pouts, refusing to eat her food.
“Ma chérie, Penelope worked hard to make breakfast for you,” I tell my daughter patiently. “She even made your favorite: oatmeal with cinnamon sugar.”
My little girl shifts in her seat, working her jaw. Her eyes flit between Penelope, our housekeeper, and me, but she doesn’t say anything. In fact, she hasn’t said anything in almost two years.
Not since the accident.
We’re gathered around the kitchen table. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a lovely Friday morning. It’s peaceful out here, exactly the way I designed it. Odette turned five shortly before September, but given her condition, I didn’t feel comfortable enrolling her in maternelle — the French version of kindergarten. The specialists I’ve been speaking to assure me that exposure to other children her age might help her affliction, but I’ve been exceedingly cautious since Marianne’s death.
What if Odette needs to ask a teacher for help? Her inability to properly communicate will only stress her out further. Hell, it’ll stressmeout further. As her father, I have a duty to protect her. Keep her safe. And if that means keeping her home with me and teaching her personally, so be it.
“Would you like something else, my dear?” Penelope asks sweetly. She’s a tiny woman pushing seventy years old. Her thinning silver hair is pulled back into a tight, severe bun atop her head. Despite her otherwise snooty appearance, Penelope is nothing but warm and kind. She’s been in my employment for a little over five years now, helping me keep an eye on Odette while staying on top of the household chores.
Odette eyes the gingerbread house kits that sit on the kitchen counter, waiting to be opened. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that tells me everything I need to know.
“It’s only the first of November,” the housekeeper teases. “If we eat them too early, the gingerbread men won’t have a place to call home.”
My daughter gives me an expectant look. She’s cute as a button, but I don’t budge. I may love her to the moon and back, but I draw the line at poor nutrition.
“Eat your oatmeal, chérie, andthenI’ll think about it.”
Her mouth opens slightly. I hold my breath, hoping this is the moment she finally chooses to speak. Instead, Odette snaps her mouth shut and moves to grab her spoon.
So close.
“Perhaps after breakfast we can decorate the living room?” Penelope suggests. “I know we don’t have a tree picked out, but we can still decorate the mantle with ornaments. What do you say, my dear?”
Odette nods, happily kicking her feet back and forth beneath the table. She doesn’t even reach the floor.
Penelope looks to me next. “Care to join us, Monsieur Rochefort?”
“I have some work to do in the office, but I’ll be free in an hour.”
“Oh, wonderful. I assume your clients are keeping you busy?”
I nod. “Everyone’s trying to get their documents in order ahead of tax season. Boring stuff. I should be able to crunch the numbers and—”
The thunderous sound of something crashing through our front gate cuts me off. While Odette and Penelope jolt in their seats, I’m already springing into action. My new life is one of quiet domesticity, but there’s always a small part of me that hasn’t been able to let go of what I used to be. The need to be prepared is ingrained into me, much like breathing or blinking —automatic.
