A Spy Like Me (19 page)

And be absolutely miserable.

But first I had to escape. I went to the door
of the bathroom and peeked outside, hoping to find Malcolm waiting
for me with two drinks. But what I saw confirmed my fears. He stood
with his back to me at a postcard rack. A man in a suit coat stood
a couple feet away. Malcolm passed him an envelope, probably a
payoff. They were talking to each other, acting like two strangers,
who just happened to meet up in an ancient church. My feet itched
to sprint across the room and down the stairs to freedom, but what
if more goons waited down in the hallways, hiding behind statues,
arms ready to grab me. I sprinted the only place left to go.
Up.

And up.

And up.

The rest of the four hundred stairs.

Fear chased me, always a step away, ready to
grab me. Finally at the top, I collapsed in a corner and curled
into a ball. Every footstep on the stairs, every echo of a male
voice, my heart rate spiked and visions of my death played with my
emotions.

I stayed huddled against the cold comfort of
the mighty cathedral and hoped God was watching out for me. The
grimacing demon and other winged gargoyles sent shivers through my
body. I pictured Jolie’s face carved into one of them, complete
with wings, horns, and glowing red eyes. The devil himself.

After rubbing the cramps out of my calves, I
stood and limped over to the wire mesh surrounding the entire top
of the tower. Paris spread out before me with its stone buildings,
lush gardens, and the Eiffel in the distance. How many more times
would I be running for my life in this city until I found answers?
Did Paris hold something against me? Did my terrible accent offend
her? No. I wished it were that simple. We were here because of
Mom’s apartment. Mom. That was who this all came down to. My
trouble started when I opened the package. All the pieces were
connected to her secrets and lies. Jolie, Malcolm, and Aimee. Not
sure how they were all connected, but I’d start with rescuing Aimee
and Marie.

The golden sun rested in the lower half of
the sky, but I couldn’t find warmth in its rays. A permanent chill
had descended on my shoulders. I straightened up, needing to brave
the world outside the cathedral and book it over to Jolie’s before
he came home. Surely, Malcolm had left. I clomped, ran, walked,
dragged myself down the four hundred stairs, only stubbing my toe
twice and tripping three times. Before leaving the cathedral I
searched the area, and only when I made sure there was no sign of
Malcolm or his buddy, I grabbed a latte at a small café across the
street. The hot liquid trailed down my throat and spread its
desperately needed warmth through my body.

I texted Dad saying the mission had failed.
The cathedral was a no go for Spy Games. Then I got on the Metro to
head back closer to home, walking distance from
le maison de
Pouffant
. The house of Pouffant. Was that even his home? I
didn’t know. And I didn’t care as long as I found Aimee.

At the house, I peered around the hedge,
trying not to bump into the sharp twigs. The place seemed empty—no
muted lights through the window, no clinking of teacups from the
backyard—nothing that I could hear or see. I gripped the straps of
my backpack and studied the house. No sneaking around this time.
The best way would be to act natural, like I belonged. The
neighbors wouldn’t question a visitor opening the backdoor. No
slinking or acting like a criminal.

With quick, sure steps, I marched across the
small side yard to the backyard not even glancing at the henhouse.
I peered through a window. No one. I hesitated at the backdoor and
listened. A design of three interlocking circles was burned into
the door, and I traced them with my finger. Confident Jolie wasn’t
home, I stepped inside into the lingering smell of cinnamon. Not
surprising for the house of a pastry chef.

A girl’s jacket lay across a worn plaid
loveseat. A small piano wedged in the corner had music for the
theme song from Harry Potter on the top. A chess game sat on the
table, half played. Framed pictures of family were on the wall. My
chest tightened as memories from Pennsylvania rushed back. Family
times with my mom and my dad. Happy times. Even if they weren’t
perfect. I wanted that back. Being in Jolie’s home, which felt cozy
and happy, pricked my heart.

Enough. A good spy does not let emotions
cloud her mission. Not wanting to wake up a snoozing pastry chef, I
crept through the downstairs. The living room led to an open but
tiny kitchen with room for a table for four.

“Marie?” I whispered, then scolded myself. I
needed to sweep the whole house and be smart about this. The stairs
were at the back of the kitchen. I tested each wooden step before
putting my entire weight on them. At the top, I could go right or
left. I poked my head in the door on the right. Must be Jolie’s
with the clean room and professionally made bed. Pouffant did not
pass over the details, which scared me.

I tiptoed across the tiny hall. A car door
shut outside. Voices. Familiar ones. My body froze up, and I
couldn’t get my legs to move. Fear of getting caught spread like
wildfire across my skin and I had to force a swallow. A tiny sob
escaped. Why didn’t I bring rope to escape out the second story
window? Or a smoke bomb?

The front door opened, and a current of
French streamed into the house, up the stairs, and wrapped around
my head, entangling my legs. I was trapped, too afraid to move in
case they heard me. Maybe they’d returned for their sweaters before
going back out to dinner.

The stairs creaked.

Damn.
My body unfroze and survival
instinct took over. I shimmied into the bathroom and whipped back
and forth for a spot to hide. The closet filled with towels and
sheets was too small. A voice cleared on the stairs. A deep growly
voice, one that I recognized.

With a gulp, I stepped behind the flowery
curtain into the shower stall and tried to control my breathing so
I didn’t sound like a girl terrified for her life. I could see the
outline of the sink and toilet through the curtain and realized
that anyone could see me too. I slithered to the bottom of the tub
and lay down, my legs bent and turned sideways.

Jolie whistled in the hall.

Please, please go into the bedroom.

Jolie didn’t. The floor creaked outside the
bathroom and I closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear. The
whistling entered the bathroom, and I cringed. I heard a
zipper.

Oh no.
I shuddered as he relieved
himself. Brief thoughts of whacking him over the head with the
crowbar passed through my mind but then he zipped his pants back
up. I held my breath and silently prayed. I begged forgiveness for
anything and everything I could think of. The last argument I’d had
with my mom before she left, my snobby disdain for Spy Games, and
my treatment of the clients. For not being a better friend to Aimee
by asking more personal questions. And for eating the last package
of Oreos Dad had brought over from the States, and then telling him
a mouse had gotten to them. If I made it through this, I’d confess
to everything.

My breaths were short and shallow, but when
his chapped hand with hairy knuckles appeared over my head, they
stopped altogether. I don’t usually notice hands. But this one
could be my downfall, and it hovered inches from my face. I closed
my eyes, waiting for him to grab my ponytail and drag me out.
Instead, the knob squeaked and the pipes shuddered to the life. Two
seconds later, tiny pricks of freezing water struck my face, arms,
and pierced my clothing. I gasped for my breath. A shower? He was
taking a shower? His pants landed on the floor outside me.
Oh
crap
!

Water streamed into my mouth and dripped into
my ears. Terrible foreboding images flashed through my brain,
scarring me forever. I did not want to see a pastry chef, this
pastry chef, in the nude, with everything all hanging in the
freeze. I mean breeze.

Someone rapped on the door and shouted. They
sounded rushed and upset. I prayed again. My lips moved in silent
confession as I tried not to choke on the water. This time, I
confessed to all my deep, dark hidden secrets. Like not telling Dad
the truth about Malcolm and our date when it happened. And stealing
his tracking devices to spy on Peyton.

“
Zut alors
!”

The water shut off. Jolie pulled on his
pants. My body trembled violently.

The girl on the other side of the door kept
yelling through it. Jolie spit out directions and rushed out of the
bathroom. Something had happened. The hand of God in their lives.
To save me. And I was
supposed
to be the hero.

They clomped down the stairs, and I sucked in
air like I would never breathe again. Hairs were plastered to my
head, and I felt like a drowned rat. I probably looked like one
too. I listened for the front door, and then waited for what seemed
like hours, shivering, trying to get warm.

When the house quieted and the panic faded, I
crawled out of the tub, not caring about leaving my wet footprints.
Everything clicked. The jacket. The Harry Potter music. The girl’s
voice. I rushed down the tiny hall, barely staying on my feet and
crashed into the girl’s room. While fumbling through her desk, I
thought back on the family pictures hanging in the living room.
Many were old black-and-white photos of unsmiling ancestors. But
many showed the growing up of a girl with blonde curls.

I swayed on my feet, goose bumps popping out
on my already-cold and shriveled skin. How could this be? I ripped
open a second drawer, fighting back tears, looking for more current
pictures. Finally, I found the tip of one poking out underneath a
deck of cards. I pulled the photo out. My heart splintered.

Aimee and Jolie stood, with their arms around
each other, smiling, happy, close. Aimee and Marie weren’t
prisoners. They lived here. With Jolie. They were family.

I couldn’t rip my eyes away from the photo.
My friend smiled adoringly up at her grandfather. The crinkle in
the corner of her eyes that I always loved when we joked about Spy
Games brought a tightness to my throat. The picture slipped from my
fingers and I slumped to the floor, blinking away tears. Our entire
friendship was a lie.

Did she even care about me? Us? Memories
flashed of my times with Aimee, whispering secrets, laughing over
silly things like the ugly hat some person was wearing at the table
near us. I’d felt guilty because our relationship seemed focused on
me. When she’d disappeared, I’d partly blamed myself for not asking
more questions and digging into her life more, like a friend
should. But maybe, just maybe, that was how she’d wanted it.

No questions. No deep conversations—unless
they were about me. No visits to her real home here with Jolie “the
great” Pouffant. I couldn’t even begin to think about the
implications of this information, and the ripple effect it had in
what’d happened since Malcolm and I were first shot at. I didn’t
want to think about it. I couldn’t.

Everything seemed to close in on me—the puffy
pink pillows on her bed, the cute kitten posters on the wall, the
flowered wallpaper. I scooted back across the wooden floors, ready
to run, escape, and eat donuts for the next two hours. After
scrambling to my feet, water still dripping from my hair and
clothes, I ran down the stairs and into the kitchen. On the bottom
step, my foot slipped in the river following me, and I fell flat on
my face.

In front of a giant hole in the floor.

Jolie’s dining area off the kitchen had
morphed into a gaping hole. My eyes widened as I took in the room.
The table was turned on its side and shoved in the corner, the
chairs stacked, and the carpet rolled back. I got to my knees,
crawled over to the bell-shaped hole, and peered into the inky
black darkness.

Warm, musty air, thick and heavy rose up from
the hole. A rusty metal ladder clung to the side of the rocky wall.
Did Jolie and Aimee go down there? Why? I knew what I should do. I
should get my freakin’ ass out of there and walk—no run—straight to
my dad and tell him everything. I mean everything. But what secrets
were they hiding down there? This might be my only chance to find
out the mystery surrounding my close friend, or ex-close-friend.
And more importantly, how it was all connected to my family and
me.

But I couldn’t be foolish about plunging into
a dark pit that probably didn’t lead to a nice, lighted cellar.
Light. I needed a flashlight. All the spy gadgets and granola bars
in my backpack wouldn’t help me in what were probably the catacombs
under Paris. Weren’t these secret entrances totally illegal? I
opened their kitchen drawers completely guilt-free and dug around
until I found a flashlight.

After one last glance into the dark hole, I
sent up a pretty shallow prayer and wondered if I’d ever see
daylight again. Time to suck it up. I climbed down and down. My
backpack weighed a ton and dripped water with every step. My legs
trembled, and my heart pounded as the light from Jolie’s kitchen
disappeared.

I clenched the flashlight in my teeth and
kept peering down, but the ladder didn’t seem to end. Dizziness
overwhelmed me, but I fought it off with every foot of the stone
circular wall that passed. What did they store down here?
Prisoners? Stolen gold? Extra pastries?

Finally, I reached the bottom. A narrow
hallway opened up before me. I tiptoed through it, terrified with
each step that a rat would run over my feet or worse I’d bump into
a skeleton or something. The dull, flickering flashlight cast weird
shadows and barely penetrated the darkness.

The passageway was short and opened into a
small cavern. Niches carved into the walls held candles with small
flames lighting the way. Water seeped from the limestone walls. A
thick tree-trunk-like pillar of stone held up the ceiling, and the
room branched off into two different hallways. I followed the one
lit with candles and shoved the flashlight into my backpack for
later.