Page 33 of One More Secret

They proceed down the aisle, checking everyone’scarte d’identité.

A dangerous silence fills the space, choking us with its oppression. Even if your papers are genuine, there is still an ingrained fear the Gestapo, Milice, or a German soldier will find fault with them.

But when yourcarte d’identitéis fake—no matter how good a forgery—it requires tremendous courage to keep the truth from your face. To keep your body from betraying you.

The officers step closer. My heart beats faster. I try swallowing my fear.

The man stops by my seat. I remove the papers from my purse, praying my hands don’t tremble.

15

JESSICA

March, Present Day

Maple Ridge

The next day,I cycle to Main Street and park my bike at the grocery store. The mountain air is crisp, the midmorning sky a welcoming blue. Spring has kissed the region and is beginning to show on the trees. Birds chirp cheerfully between the promise of leaf buds.

I lock my bike and walk through the store. I pay for the food and load everything into the cloth bag I found in Iris’s kitchen. Next, I go into the drugstore a few shops down and locate their small stationery section. I grab a package of pens and a thick pad of lined paper. Angelique’s journal is tricky to follow at times because of the faded ink and shaky handwriting. Anne and her husband left this morning for their European vacation, so I couldn’t tell her about the journals I found. Maybe she knows who Angelique is.

The investigative reporter in me, the one my husband thought he’d buried, wants to finish reading the journals. Wants to figure out why they were hidden in the secret room.

The investigative reporter in me also senses it’s important I read them.

I plan to copy the journals as I read them, writing it all word for word. When I have the chance, I’ll type it out at the library. Because Anne said her eyesight is failing, I plan to give her the typed-out copy—along with the journals and everything else I found in the box—so she can read the entries without further eye strain. It’s my way of saying “thank you” for everything she has done for me, starting with offering a stranger a place to stay while I figure out my life.

And, well…I really want to find out what happens next when it comes to Angelique. Ihaveto keep reading the journals.

I’m about to bike to the library but have second thoughts and pedal to Picnic & Treats first. To get a dessert. Because I can. And because Granny loved making cakes to celebrate special occasions.

And what’s more special than buying your first house?

I remove the bag from the bike’s basket and enter the café.

Zara steps through the door behind the counter, carrying a tray of Danishes, her copper-brown skin glowing in the natural light streaming through the café windows. A smile, bright and friendly, stretches across her face. “Hi, Jessica. Give me a sec. I want to ask you something.”

I nod, a flush warming my cheeks. It still feels weird having people ask me questions instead of ordering me around or raining me with insults.

I wait by the door, playing chameleon and blending into my surroundings. Trying to be invisible. Which is ridiculous. This is a small town. I bet at least half the population has heard about the scarred woman who just moved to Maple Ridge.

I feel naked, raw, my entire story printed in large headline font on my body.

“Wife of Murdered Cop Sentenced to Life in Prison.”

“Wife Believed Husband Having an Affair and Killed Him.”

“Wife Sentenced for Murdering Husband Declared Innocent.”

“Killer of Murdered Cop Still At Large.”

If they knew…if they knew the truth about my life, would they blame me for what happened? Would they blame me for not walking away when he first hit me? When he first tore me apart with his words? How could they not? I’ve spent the past eight years wondering how I could’ve been so stupid. Wondering how I’d missed the signs until it was too late.

And then I was too scared to leave. Scared no one would believe me. I couldn’t even file a police report. Who would believe that one of their own, the man who was paid to protect others, who was a hero…who would believe he terrorized his wife on a daily basis?

Terrorized his wife between those stretches of time when he showered her with gifts and affection.

I knew no one would believe me. And I’d been correct. No one believed me when I went to trial for his murder.

---