Page 58 of Intersect

It’s the least reassuring response he could give. It tells me that, much like Rose’s father, he cares so much about my outcome he can’t put anything else ahead of it, at least not rightnow.

We keep walking and exit the path at the Tuileries. Rodin’sThe Kissstands outside. My favorite sculpture of all time, out in the open as if it’s nothingspecial.

“I can’t believe it’s just sitting here, like any old thing,” I whisper, as if the shock of it has stolen the air from my throat. I close my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. Paris is like a life-size jewel box, and I’m standing in the middle of it all with the only person in the whole world I want to be with. How can there be this many wonderful things in the world? Nick, Paris, children—it would be too much good fortune foranyone.

“You alright?” he asks, his breath against myneck.

I swallow and nod, feeling a little choked up and a little terrified. “It’s perfect,” Ireply.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he says, assuming I meant the statue when I really meantthis, all of it. It is the high point, the moment when so much good fortune falls upon you at once that you know nothing else can ever matchit.

Which reminds me it’s all going to come to an end.Soon.

28

NICK

The call comes that afternoon, just after we’re back from theLouvre.

Cecelia gives me an address. “You should hurry,” she adds before she hangsup.

I lunge across the room for my shoes and Quinn jumps to her feet. “Was thather?”

“Yes. And you’re not coming,” I snap, shoving my wallet into mypocket.

She ignores me as she pulls her sneakers on. “You don’t make the rules. I’m here and we’re in thistogether.”

I groan. I should have realized this would be a fight. “Not this, we’re not. She tried to kill you, Quinn, and if you’re there I’m going to be so worried about protecting you I won’t be able to focus on anythingelse.”

“At least tell me where you’re going,” shedemands.

“You know I’m not doing that. You’ll give me 15 minutes and then start to worry and come afterme.”

She folds her arms across her chest. “You know I could just follow you rightnow.”

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, nothingmore.”

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 Quinn’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 doit.

* * *

I givethe 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 Quinn’s life is on theline.

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. Quinn 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’thave.

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 Sarah lives in Georgetown, I’m hard pressed to imaginethisis where she stays in Paris. Even the driver seems to wonder if we’re in the right place. “Ici?” he asks, with a single browarched.

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 bodewell.

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 basementstairs.

She will have heard me creaking around up here so it’s not as if I can surprise her, but if she’s lurking near the bottom of the stairs in the dark she could sure as fuck surprise me. I flip on thelight.

The floorboards creak underfoot as I descend into a basement straight out of every horror movie ever made: poorly lit, water dripping, crammed with dusty furniture strewn with cobwebs. “Hello?” I call. “Sarah? I don’t want to fight with you. I just havequestions.”

I walk toward the back of the basement, to a second door. I brace myself as I reach for the knob, and the moment I do, feet skitter, flying up the stairs. There’s an almost childish giggle as the basement door slams shut. I run up the stairs after her, not at all surprised to find the door is locked from the outside. Even when I throw my shoulder against it, it does notgive.

I will need to call the police for help since I refuse to drag Quinn into this mess, and if they don’t arrest me for breaking and entering…what then? How the fuck am I going to find Sarah if she doesn’t want to be found? If she can disappear on awhim?

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