Page 53 of One More Betrayal

Then the engine starts up again, and the sound of gravel crunching under tyres tells me whoever it was is driving away.

Or the vehicle’s driver is leaving and the passenger remained behind.

I wait for Johann to come to tell me the coast is clear. Silence settles over the house and stretches with each passing second. And still, there’s no indication if the threat has gone.

I check the clock on the dresser. I don’t know where Johann is, but there is still enough time for me to bike to the village and see if the cut-out has left me any new messages.

I walk downstairs and pedal to the village. A wooden structure that wasn’t there the other day sits in the middle of the town square, its ominous purpose unmistakable. Loops of rope dangle from the structure.

I duck my head, not daring to look at it for any longer than I already have, and go into the café.

The place is empty other than one other customer. The man is reading a newspaper, a coffee cup in front of him on the table. I don’t recognise him. He’s wearing a suit that is threadbare at the elbows and does not fit as well as I imagine it once did. His brown hair is prematurely greying and slightly messy.

My gaze flicks to Danielle. The short, thin woman, with grey hair slipping from her bun, doesn’t appear too ruffled by him being here. She’s busy wiping the top of the glass display.

I walk to the counter. “Bonjour.” I keep my voice appropriately cheery and place my order. I pay for it. Danielle accepts it and hands me the change, the exact amount indicating there was no message today.

A commotion outside snares our attention. Shouting and screams come from the village square. Danielle and I exchange worried glances and rush to the window.

Two SS officers are dragging a man to the wooden structure. Even without seeing his face, I recognise the man who is my friend and fellow resistance fighter. The man who kissed me when two German soldiers stumbled upon us during a parachute reception. Please, no.

The SS officers stop beneath the structure and turn the man to face the crowd.

At the sight of Pierre’s bleeding and beaten face, my hands slap against my mouth.

It’s all I can do not to scream.

18

Jessica

June, Present Day

Maple Ridge

* * *

Three days after I run into Violet at the grocery store, Troy picks Bailey and me up in his new truck and drives us to his parents’ house. Their neighborhood is pretty much like mine, only several decades newer. The houses here have vinyl siding instead of wood or stucco, and they’re larger than on my street, with porches and longer front yards. Tall, thin trees skirt both sides of the wide street—between the road and the sidewalks—providing a leafy shade from the sun.

Troy pulls up in front of a two-story, charcoal-gray house with a wraparound porch, and my heart scampers into my throat.

Bailey and I step down from the truck, and I open the back door for Butterscotch. The dish with the homemade dessert bars is balanced on my free hand. Butterscotch goes running up the porch steps. Bailey has on her Service Dog in Training vest, but I can tell if given a chance, she would be chasing after her friend.

The path leading to the porch is made of cobblestones. It branches off into a narrow pathway that meanders through several flowerbeds, each trimmed with low hedges. The entire front yard is peaceful and quaint. It’s similar to what I would love to adopt for my house one day.

The house and garden are perfect. It’s the kind of place one can’t help but fall in love with.

A direct contrast to me.

I’m imperfect, damaged, unlovable. I’m the house with cracked and chipped stucco and warped floorboards.

I stare at the house, and the feeling of peace from a moment ago vanishes. All I can do is stare at Troy’s childhood home, unsure what I’m doing here. I’m not used to dealing with parents. Not even my own.

Especially not my own.

Troy comes over to my side of the truck. “Hey, breathe, Jess. You’ve met my mom. And my dad’s also gonna love you.” He lowers his mouth to mine. His lips are soft and soothing and sensual, and I let myself get lost in the kiss.

But kissing him has the opposite effect than the one he was after. My heart rate picks up and my palms grow annoyingly damp.

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