Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72692 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
I don’t know where I am.
My heart gives a little thump when I try to get a good idea of my location. I have to admit. This might’ve been a good time for me to… alright, fine, have a guard. Someone I could at least wave to and ask for a little directional help?
I glance back at my phone and notice it’s almost dead.
I stifle a groan. Nicolette would have my head.
I look around again. Maybe there’s someone nearby that can tell me where to go. A pub or a little corner store or a friendly old lady? But I walked myself right out of anything familiar or populated.
Well.
I’ll just have to go back the way I came.
I might be alone, but I’m safe.
I turn around and walk back in the general direction of where I started, but when I come to an intersection, I wonder. Is it left or straight?
Left. It has to be left. I think I remember that little house with the sign for the flats for rent.
I walk faster now. I’m dying to get home to our flat where my books wait. The newest Ilona Andrews book just came in the mail, and I can’t wait to dig in.
A feeling of dread grows in my belly as I don’t recognize anything nearby.
Where… am I?
None of this is familiar.
I’ve never seen this house. I’ve never seen this street. I don’t recognize the street names, and now that the sun’s set, I don’t even know what general direction I’m walking in.
Ahead of me, I hear voices and stifle a dry sob that surprises even myself. I didn’t know I was that wound up.
When I turn a corner, I almost cry in relief when I see the brilliant, welcoming glow of a streetlight in front of a pub, the door wide open, and about half a dozen men talking amongst themselves. When they see me, they stop talking for a minute.
I don’t usually have regrets. But right now? I am so regretting dying my hair highlighter pink. I stand out like a flag on a wide-open field.
Maybe I should’ve listened to my sister, who would’ve wanted to shake me for walking alone, at night, in Paris, which the tour guides might say is safe but it’s still a large, bustling city.
One of the men staring at me gives me a lewd grin that makes the little hairs on my neck stand up. Ugh. I can imagine Fabien’s reaction. Funny how a few minutes ago I was eager for more independence, but right about now I’d give anything for my brother-in-law’s imposing presence and my sister’s fearlessness.
“Salut! C’est une très belle tenue que vous portez.”
Oh, how cliché to compliment me on my outfit.
But no, I am not playing this game.
So I do what any intelligent, self-aware woman would do in this situation. I smile and lie and pretend I don’t speak his language.
“Pardon. Je ne parle pas français.”
I walk past them and turn a corner. I’m holding my breath.
But no one follows me.
Oh, thank God.
I breathe out in relief, only to find myself at the back of the pub. Trash barrels and empty boxes line the walls, and the air reeks of something I can’t identify and don’t want to. I wonder if I should go inside and try to find a phone, when I realize with a jolt of alarm… I’m not alone.
Fear knots in my stomach at the chilling scene in front of me. A woman, gagged and bound, in the hands of two big, terrifying, fully armed men. I stand motionless in horror at the sight.
At the pleading look in her eyes, panic explodes within me. She screams and begs against the gag, but only garbled sounds come out.
No.
I open my mouth to speak. To tell them to let her go, to do something, when one curses and the second turns his weapon toward me.
“Get out of here,” he snaps at me in French. “Get the fuck out.”
I can’t move. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m staring down the barrel of a pistol.
Let her go, I scream in my head. Let her go!
But I can’t talk.
“You have three seconds,” he growls. I don’t know what to do. I feel as if I’ve been frozen into ice by a magic wand. I hear the click of his gun.
I’m going to die. I’m not going to save her, and I’m going to die, right along with her.
I wish I’d told Nicolette I loved her before she left. Why didn’t I tell her I loved her?
“Drop your weapon!”
They’re looking over my shoulder. I’m afraid to even turn around.
My heart beats so fast I feel dizzy. I stifle a whimper.
The problem is, neither of the armed men make a move to drop their weapon. The woman begins to sob and shake as a uniformed officer, dressed in the trademark dark blue of la Police Nationale, steps around me with his weapon drawn.