Lisa
The call comes that afternoon, just after we're back from the Louvre.
Cecelia gives me an address. "You should hurry," she adds before she hangs up.
I lunge across the room for my shoes and Roseanne jumps to her feet. "Was that her?"
"Yes. And you're not coming," I snap, shoving my wallet into my pocket.
She ignores me as she pulls her sneakers on. "You don't make the rules. I'm here and we're in this together."
I groan. I should have realized this would be a fight. "Not this, we're not. She tried to kill you, Roseanne, and if you're there I'm going to be so worried about protecting you I won't be able to focus on anything else."
"At least tell me where you're going," she demands.
"You know I'm not doing that. You'll give me 15 minutes and then start to worry and come after me."
She folds her arms across her chest. "You know I could just follow you right now."
I gently push her to the bed and kneel in front of her. My lips graze her forehead and then her belly.
"You have someone to protect. Maybe two someones. I need you to be safe, and this is going to be fine. It's a conversation, nothing more."
Her shoulders sag in unwilling agreement. In truth, I'm not sure it will just be a conversation. I press my lips to the top of Roseanne's head, and hold them there, just a moment longer than I should. I hope to God it's not the last time I ever do it.
* * *
I give the driver the address and he heads back toward the Champs-Élysées. I have no idea if this is going to be a polite visit or an altercation. Cecelia's words—killing her would solve everything—echo in my head. It's funny how the oath I swore about doing no harm becomes meaningless when Roseanne's life is on the line.
We cross the Pont des Arts, heading toward the left bank. There's some legend about the bridge—lovers putting a lock on the bridge and throwing the key into the Seine. Roseanne and I didn't do it. I'm wondering now if we'll ever get a chance, if doing it would have brought us some extra hint of luck we now don't have.
We arrive in a section of town that's seen better days. While most of Paris is old and charming, the houses here are only old, minus the charm. Their brick facades are crumbling and several of them lean precipitously to the right, one good storm away from annihilation. We stop in front of a stone structure that is easily 300 years old if not more. Given how well Eleanor lives in Georgetown, I'm hard pressed to imagine this is where she stays in Paris. Even the driver seems to wonder if we're in the right place.
"Ici?" he asks, with a single brow arched.
I nod and slide from the car, watching him speed off. With a single deep breath, I knock on the door. No one comes. I knock again, then try the handle. The door swings open into an entryway with a large kitchen just past it. The remains of breakfast sit on the counter—a pot of jam, a loaf of bread with the serrated knife still lodged inside it—almost as if whoever was here ran out in a panic, which doesn't bode well.
I'm trying to decide if I should wait outside or explore the house for clues when I hear a door shut below me. Someone is in the basement. Someone who may be hiding from me. I pull the knife from the bread, because this is clearly not going to be a friendly conversation, and go to the basement stairs.
