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Rivulets of muddy rainwater stream downhill. Heavy chunks of mud cling to the soles of my sneakers as I walk, and I can barely find the strength to keep going. With each step, my feet keep sliding down the slope.
A harsh breath blows past my lips. The sky grows steadily darker, and there’s no sign the storm will be ending soon.
Shelter. That’s what I need. I head for the tree line and continue walking toward the towers of pine and spruce. I stumble over protruding rocks and roots and tangled undergrowth. The wind howls through the trees and rattles the branches.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
Dory’s words spring to mind. Amelia loved Finding Nemo as a toddler. And I loved watching it with her.
A shudder grips me, strong enough to cause the ache in my side to intensify. My legs stiffen from the cold and my fear, making it more challenging to even limp.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
A loud crack splits the sky—a bright and sudden flash its encore. Seconds later, a resounding boom sends my teeth chattering.
Or maybe they were already doing that and I’m only now noticing.
Shadows loom around me, hiding the most dangerous creatures in these parts. Bears. Cougars. Wolves. As I slowly back away, my eyes try to make out the blurred shapes and shadows. Nothing moves. Nothing lunges toward me.
But that doesn’t chase away the feeling that something is watching me.
It only emphasizes how alone I am out here.
3
Angelique
June 1943
France
* * *
When I was twelve years old, my sister, our parents, and I visited Munich. We were living in Austria at the time because my British diplomat father was stationed in Vienna. I don’t remember much of Munich beyond the metallic taste of fear and the pounding in my chest. I remember wondering if angels were real and if I was about to see one.
I remember the glint of metal, the pistol aimed at my father.
The only difference between then and now is, the last time I stared down the barrel of a gun, we were being robbed by a stranger. And it wasn’t the middle of the night.
This man…this man who is about to shoot me is no stranger. He’s Captain Johann Schmidt, the German soldier who has done nothing but surprise me time and again since he moved into the farmhouse. The German soldier who is hiding his Jewish family in Jacques’s barn.
“I’m not going to harm them.” My voice is a soft whisper, a tremor looping the French words.
Johann doesn’t lower the pistol.
I raise my hands slowly, not giving him a reason to shoot me. “I only want to help. I can get them some food.”
The pistol remains in place.
“I promise your family is safe. But we have to get them out of here. If the Gestapo or SS or Milice find them here, they’ll kill us all.” A chill wraps around my body, reminding me I’m standing outside Jacques’s barn in the middle of the night, wearing a nightgown and a robe.
I had stepped out of the house to get air after waking from a nightmare. I hadn’t expected to stumble across Johann or his family in the barn.
“They aren’t my family.” Johann lowers the gun, but even then, I cannot breathe.
“But…but the little girl called you Oncle Johann.”
He doesn’t reply, and my mind is spinning, trying to devise a plan to help the family. I have connections, but none who can help get a family out of the country. And that’s exactly what needs to happen. Whoever they are…they can’t stay in France. It’s too dangerous.
