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GRACE
I step from the boat and an official-looking man greets me. “Ms. Morozov?” he asks. I nod, panic gripping my chest in case they’ve discovered my fake passport. “Please follow me.”
“Have I done something wrong?” I ask, rushing to keep up as he marches ahead.
He smiles. “Not at all. We have some news for you.”
I frown. News? Who would have any news for me? Unless . . . I pause, coming to a stop. The man turns back and also stops, giving me a quizzical look. “Are you okay?”
“Is he in there?”
“Who?”
“Ivan?” I shout. “Is he there waiting for me?”
The man looks confused. “No, madam. I told you, we have some news.” He pauses before adding in a quieter tone, “It’s a little delicate.”
“Just tell me here,” I snap.
“I think we should go to the office. You might need to sit down for this.”
“I saidtell me here.”
He takes a large swallow, glancing around. I do the same in case this is a trick and Ivan is about to pounce.
“We had a call from the local authorities in England. Your relative, Lenny . . .” I frown.Relative?“He was found dead in his home last night.”
I stare down at the ground, my vision blurring through tears. “The police called you?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did they leave a name or a contact number?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I slowly nod. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“We can help to arrange a flight to England,” he suggests, a look of empathy on his face.
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I can sort that myself.”
I wander the streets of France with my heart torn into a thousand pieces. Ivan made that call, which means he still knows where I am. It also begs the question why he hasn’t had me returned to him. He hurt Lenny, probably thinking I’d rush home, but I can’t, despite how much I want to. It’s a trap. Lenny would understand that.
People pass me by in a blur, and when I finally come to a stop, it’s beside a luxurious-looking hotel. I head inside, and the concierge smiles brightly. Her French accent is thick as she greets me, and I smile weakly.
“A room for the night?” I ask, and she taps away on her computer.
“There are only two rooms available. Both are executive suites. It’s a private floor which only you can access with the key card.”
I nod, reaching into my bag and grabbing a handful of cash. “Do you take cash?”
She stares at the pile with an arched brow. “Of course, madam.”
The room is stunning. It’s almost like a small apartment rather than a hotel. I go straight for the window and push it open, staring down into the busy street below.
A few minutes later, room service arrives with the lunch I ordered, plus some items I requested from the pharmacy. He hands me the bag with an awkward smile, and I tip him.
Once he’s gone, I sit on the bed cross-legged and empty the contents. I sift through the soap, shampoo, and hair ties, and pick out the pregnancy test. I’ve been praying that my period is absent because of stress. Often, when I was on the streets, it wouldn’t come every month because my body was too malnourished. But now, I’m late for the third time, and that can’t be a coincidence.
