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“Merci,” she says with a grateful smile.
“You’re welcome,” I reply.
Her expression quickly shifts when she notices something. She taps her forehead. “You’re bleeding!”
I reach up quickly, my fingers brushing against my temple. They come away sticky with blood and dust. “Ah, shit. Um, don’t worry about it.”
“Do you need hospital?” she asks in broken English.
“No, no. I’m okay. I’m—”
I cut myself off at the sound approaching footsteps. When I look up, I see two patrol officers stopping pedestrians to show them a picture. The sight of their uniforms makes my heart leap into my throat. I hastily round the corner and press my back against the wall. They approach the homeless woman and show her the picture next. It’s blurry, taken from a traffic cam, but it’s very obviously me.
Well shit.
They speak too quickly for me to understand anything, but you’d be surprised how much you can interpret through tone alone. They’re looking for me, interrogating the homeless woman to see if she knows anything.
“Non,” she says over and over again. “Non, I see no one like this.”
With a frustrated grumble, the patrol officers continue down the street. Only when they disappear around the corner do I let out a heavy sigh of relief.
“Thank you,” I whisper to her.
She nods knowingly. “Run, girl. They will be back.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. With one final nod, I’m off like the wind, racing down the street in the opposite direction of the officers.
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.
