Page 118 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You
Then the monitor stutters.
A blip.
Another.
A beat.
The paramedic stares at the screen, then at me. “A precordial thump,” she whispers, stunned. “I haven’t seen that work in years.”
I pay her no heed. I press my forehead to Ophelia’s, my breath hot against her skin.
“Ophelia, don’t you leave me. We’re taking you to the hospital now. Don’t you dare die, if you do, I will follow you. Tell me, are you intending to die? Say it plainly, because if that is what you want I must go first, there is no way I could bear the knowledge that you have stopped breathing. If that is your wish, say so, and I will end it.”
She lies completely still, only the monitor’s constant beeping proves she’s still here.
The helicopter’s rotors pierce the night, I look up, press my lips to her brow and whisper, “Fight, ma lune.”
Chapter 40
Ophelia
Eighteen months earlier | Paris, France.
One thing about France is that even the country itself has style.
We drive along the quai by the Seine, sunlight slits the water into bright, silver ribbons. Between the buildings the Eiffel Tower’s needle, Paris looks almost too perfect to be true.
Beside me my father scrolls through his phone, expression closed and habitual. He hasn’t said a word since we left the villa.
When the car slows he finally lowers the screen and, without meeting my eye, tells me, “You have three hours, find your own way back. I expect you at the villa by seven. Don’t give me cause to regret letting you loose.”
I nod, long accustomed to the sting of his indifference.
He slips his phone into his coat pocket. “I never had an issue trusting your sister. But you…”
The words land sharply, though I keep my eyes fixed ahead, my chest tightening. “Yes, father,” I say, restrained and polite, like the dutiful little daughter I’m meant to be.
The car slows to a halt before the tower. As the driver reaches for the handle, I push the door open myself and step out, bag in hand.
The air is cool and faintly sweet, carrying the scent of pastries and early spring flowers.
The Eiffel Tower rises before me, magnificent and impossibly grand. Photographs never come close to capturing it.
I scan the area for the ticket counters, hoping they offer some form of priority access, the queue stretches so far it could easily swallow an hour, perhaps more.
I check the time, four o’clock. That gives me exactly three hours, and I’d rather see more of Paris than spend them waiting in line.
I tighten my coat belt and glance up again. The air is soft for March, warm enough to wander without freezing, yet the last bite of winter lingers in the breeze.
The trees nearby are already flirting with blossom, small bursts of white and pink along the avenue.
After securing the tickets and ascending the Tower, I find myself at the top with a glass of champagne in hand, a single strawberry balanced on the rim, ridiculously overpriced, yet worth every euro for the view. I take a few photos for my Instagram story.
After that, I make my way to the Louvre. A quick check on the map tells me it’s a fair distance, so I catch a bus for a few stops to shorten the walk, time is slipping again.
I doubt we’ll stay another day, father rarely bothers to share the itinerary. I may as well see the landmarks while I can. Overrated or not, they’re still Paris.
I reach the Louvre and join the queue for tickets, surrounded by tourists in glossy coats, all talking over one another in a dozen different accents.
