Revenge in Paris

Part 1

As I walked down Boulevard de Grenelle, I was tired, cranky, and not used to being stared at. The blonde wig I wore over my usual brunette bob caused my scalp to sweat and itch, and where was the seasonal weather? Around noon, three days before Christmas, and I was wearing sunglasses, a lightweight coat, scarf, and a silk dress. I never wore dresses. Paris in winter, and it was sunny and cool?

Better than freezing rain, I told myself.

But freezing rain would have better fit my mood.

My arm ached from hauling my carry-on behind me and slinging it on and off the train, then up and down the Metro stairs. I didn't care. The Metro had become my ally, reminding me of why I'd come to Paris. Above entrances and exits hung the same large photo of Marilyn Monroe, an advertisement for a Halsman photography exhibit at Jeu de Paume. Monroe sits cross-legged and gorgeous on the floor, barefoot, naked shoulders, bra strap hanging, head bent over a book, so much like my sister Sophie, so vulnerable, so precious, you wanted to wrap a blanket around her and say come with me, anything to keep her from ever being hurt again

But I hadn't wrapped that blanket around Sophie, and now my sister was dead.

Another Metro line clattered overhead. I shivered as my energy waned and my spirits sank into the gray of the neighborhood, the lack of holiday lights, the doubts of whether or not I could pull this off. The 15th arrondissement was unfamiliar to me. When Hank and I stayed in Paris years before, we'd rented apartments in the Marais, a more upscale area. This was a working-class neighborhood even though it was only a ten-minute walk to the Eiffel Tower. I probably wouldn't have chosen this arrondissement-if I'd had a choice.

But the Frenchman lived here, and he killed my sister.

He'd also killed my unborn niece or nephew.

A man stopped to appraise me. I shoved past him and walked by three souvenir shops. From one shop the song "Hotel California" played on a cheap boombox. I hated that song. As I approached a neighborhood supermarket, the Franprix, a beggar dressed in the saddest Santa outfit I'd ever seen sat on the sidewalk and held out his paper cup. He looked up at me. I glanced away and hurried past.

The apartment was somewhere nearby. I couldn't wait to take off the wig and all the make-up, too-foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, the works. I never wore this crap and felt as phony as that Santa suit. When you work at a law firm like mine, conservative dress is a given. I preferred to call it classic. But I wasn't in Paris as me, Angeline Porter. I was here as journalist Helen Craig.

I searched for the address of my apartment. Square Desaix, Square Desaix, where the hell was Square Desaix? I found the street where a flower shop on the corner was decorated for the season. That brightened my mood a little. I turned up the dead-end road and found the address, rang the bell, and the "guardian," a concierge of sorts, greeted me. She gave me the key. I remembered little French, but I managed. When I tried to cram into the phone-booth-size elevator with my carryon, I couldn't, so I put my suitcase on its floor, pressed the number three button, and walked up the curved staircase to meet the elevator and my suitcase on the third floor. After I unlocked the heavy door, I stepped into a three-room apartment, spacious by Paris standards, and in the bedroom, pulled off my wig and boots, collapsed on the bed, and fell asleep.