That has me shooting straight up. At first, I’m thrilled to have any news about him at all. Then I wonder why he sent someone instead of showing up himself. Where is he?
“What is it?”
“He wants you to send the diaries to us. I’m sure you know who we are by now. An address where you should send them will be emailed to you.”
I feel my breath catch. I pay much closer attention to him. He has an accent, but it doesn’t sound French, or Parisian at any rate. Not quite German either. I realize that it’s completely irrelevant where he’s from. He’s here now, and I want answers.
“Who the hell are you?”
I’m rewarded with a small, taunting smirk. “As I said, I’m sure you know.”
“Where is André?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“He’s fine…for now.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I snap, getting angry. I want to reach out and throttle some sense out of the man.
“It means,” he says, his voice hardening as he lowers it, “that you either send the diaries to us, or we kill you both.”
Any further questions fade away. They’re replaced by horror. André’s plan didn’t work, and now the Werwolf Order has him in their grasp.
“How do I know he’s still alive?”
“You don’t,” he says in a bored tone.
“I’m not telling you anything until I know he’s alive.”
“So you’re willing to die…and for what? The painting is gone, André will be as well. You have no reason to die as well. Give us the painting and you can go on with your life.”
I dig into my purse and pull out my phone to call André. Even after three tries, there’s no answer on the other end, which only fills me with a more profound sense of foreboding.
I hang up and turn my attention back to the man in front of me, staring him down and waiting for him to cave. He’s far too seasoned for that.
“There is a chance he’s still alive, Brielle,” he says, getting impatient.
My mind spins through all the possible ways out of this and I realize I have no option but to send them the original diaries. André assured me that he had made copies. The stories contained within them will continue to live on. I certainly don’t expect Gaultier or Hélène to keep them as mementos once they get them. This man is right, the painting no longer matters, not when it comes to my life. Not when it comes to the man who has saved me.
Now, it’s my turn to do the same for him.
“I don’t have them on me,” I say, if only to buy time. “They’re…they aren’t here.”
“We assumed,” he replies in a droll voice. “A reservation on an Air France flight back to New York leaves tonight at 7:40 p.m.”
“You’ve thought of everything, I see,” I say in a bitter voice.
“Something you should keep in mind if you decide to do anything...unwise.”
He sees the defeat in my eyes and nods once with a jerk of the head. “The address for the diaries will be sent to you. Be on that plane tonight.”
He spins and walks out of the hall before I can even reply. I stare after him, feeling that same twist in my stomach that I felt when I opened my desk drawer and found the incriminating evidence that landed me in jail.
It’s a feeling of helplessness.
Except this time, I have the ability to do something about it. Which means going back to New York.
He may have been lying when he said they’d spare my life and André’s, but so long as there’s a chance, the diaries mean nothing.
I turn my attention back to Mona Lisa, who still stares back at me with that damnable smile.
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter.
I’m on the plane back to New York, coach this time. Naturally. And a middle seat, probably to remind me of my inferior race or something stupid like that.
Bastards.
I thought of every crazy scenario to try an end-run around these people, from going to the police, to finding out where Hélène lived (surely, her address must be somewhere in André’s apartment) and confronting her. Then I remembered the fake passport. Causing more trouble for myself wouldn’t help either of us.
Going through customs at JFK is another heart-wrenching experience. I didn’t think I could be wound any tighter. But the guy who made my passport was good. At least something is going right for once.
I arrive late at night, too late for the bank to be open, so I head back to my apartment. This one is certainly not as nice as the one I had just before prison. It’s a tiny rented place from a landlord who had lax standards, especially when I used Georgette’s bequest to pay not only first and last month’s rent and deposit, but six months pre-paid as well. At the time, luxury wasn’t my main concern. I was only focused on revenge.
Now, I’m just focused on keeping André and myself alive.
I’ve had a prickly feeling of concern since before I even got on the plane. It’s still there, but I attribute it to the kind of nerves anyone in my position would have. When I turned off airplane mode on my phone, a text message with the address was the first thing that appeared—somewhere in Paris.
I had been hoping for at least some message from André and was more than a little disappointed and worried when there was nothing from him. I simply attribute it to the Werwolf Order not allowing us to have any contact with each other. That’s the only thing that gives me any hope.
The next day, I wake up, surprised that I got any sleep at all. There are too many butterflies in my stomach to eat, even though I should be ravenous. Heaven knows I didn’t eat on the plane.
When I get to the bank, I’m surprised I can actually walk at all. From the moment I step in, to the moment that I’m alone in the room with my opened safety deposit box, I feel like a criminal.
I stare down at the diaries and feel suddenly overcome with sorrow. It isn’t just the loss of the diaries, it’s the loss of everything tied to them: Georgette and Frank, the memories of me obsessively reading them over and over when I was a teenager, the entire Ardant legacy. These are my final ties to all of it. And now I’m sending them to the enemy.
Any ounce of betrayal I feel is far overshadowed by the thought that I’m saving André. I think those old ghosts would all understand.
I carry the diaries out in my tote and terminate the continued rental for the box. There’s no more need for it.
It costs a fortune to ship—yet another thing that the Werwolf Order decided to screw me over with—but I’ve done my part. I have little faith that they’ll keep their word about André and me, but at least I can say I’ve done everything I could.
The next few days only renew my concern. I’ve heard nothing from anyone. Not André or the Order. I scour every bit of news online to see if there’s anything about anyone being outed as part of the Werwolf Order or any mention of a murder that fits André’s description or name. Nothing.
The first postcard arrives that evening, two days after I send the diaries. The front depicts Van Gough’s The Starry Night. On the back, only two words are written:
Pour toujours.
Forever.
Chapter Forty-Eight
André
My eyes slowly open, and the first thing I notice is the dull, throbbing ache spreading across most of my back.
The next thing I notice is the person in the hospital room with me.
Hélène.
My gaze sharpens with sudden clarity, and I sit up before I can remind myself to take it slow. The sharp pain in my back punishes me for it.
“Be careful,” she says from the chair she’s sitting in.
I glare at her as I use the controls to slowly lift the upper part of the bed. “That’s an odd thing for you of all people to say.”
She takes it with silent grace.
“At least now I know the cost of betrayal.”
“I didn’t betray you…at least not intentionally,” her eyes fall down to the floor with guilt.
“And y
et, here I lie.”
The attack happened a few days ago. I’m not sure if the attacker intended to keep me alive as a warning, or if he just failed at his attempt to kill me. Either way, I lived long enough to make it to the hospital. Once I was recovered enough, my first priority was to get a message to Brielle. Thankfully, the man who attacked me only took my phone and not my wallet. I gave the nurse a set of instructions and a decent fee for services—as well as a bit of my own well-practiced charm—to get the postcard to her letting her know that I was alive. I don’t dare use any electronic communication. The less I draw attention to her, the better. But I at least had to ease any concern she had about my welfare.
I can only wonder what she was thinking when I didn’t return to the Louvre, and I’m sure she wasn’t so desperate that she risked going to the police for my sake. If she’s smart, by now she should be back home.
“If it makes you feel any better, the Order was happy to betray me once I got in touch with Bernard after you visited. I had to, I couldn’t very well just meet your demands without some support or protection. I thought that since he was in the same situation as I was, he could help. I had no idea it would end up like this. He must have revealed everything to someone higher up.”
A wry smirk reaches my lips. “No honor among thieves…or Werwolves, I suppose.”
She’s not at all amused.
Frankly, neither am I.
“What is it you want? To finish the job they didn’t?”
She flinches in surprise. “No, I’ve come to…apologize. To let you know that I plan on turning myself in.”
Now I’m the one who is surprised…and immediately suspicious. “Why?”
Her eyes flash with anger. “They took my daughter from me. Despite what it may have seemed like, I never wanted that. Just because she distanced herself from me, doesn’t mean I didn’t—don’t still love her. Now, they’ve tried to kill you. With you gone, I have nothing, no one left. No matter what you feel about me, even if you hate me, you’re still my grandson, and I love you.”
I’m not about to give in that easily.
A cynical look comes to her face. “Then there’s the fact that the bastards are planning on cutting their ties with me.”
“Collateral damage,” I say in English.
She nods. “I have no idea about Bernard, but as of now, I’m a loose end. My time is limited. My only option is to turn myself in.”
That much I could have figured out. “Brielle I are loose ends as well, I suppose.”
She shakes her head. “They only wanted the diaries from her and she obeyed them. Contrary to what you may think, they don’t like murder. It leads to too many questions. These people are about working behind the scenes, avoiding exposure. Without the original diaries, she has nothing to hold over their heads. They’ll leave her alone until the dust settles, long enough for me to do what I need to.”
That only makes me feel slightly at ease. It’s something that I expected. That’s why I made sure to have the diaries copied and scanned while I spent time visiting with Georgette.
“As for you, this,” she waves her hand at me lying in the hospital bed, “has already brought about too much attention. The only people incriminated as of now are Bernard and me. They are happy to let us fall.”
I stare at Hélène, realizing that this is probably the last time I’ll see her, at least as a free woman. I can’t bring myself to completely forgive her, or regret anything I’ve done.
She nods, seeming to read my mind. “I suppose this is goodbye, André. You’ll be safe in the hospital. Stay here as long as you can. My next step is to go to the authorities. It’s been a long and…interesting life. Now, it’s time for me to pay my dues.”
“Goodbye, Hélène.”
“Goodbye, André. By the time you are healthy enough to be released, you and Brielle should both be safe.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Brielle
It takes a while, but I eventually find the first glimpse of the Werwolf Order’s house of cards begin to fall.
It starts with Gaultier, which I find personally satisfying. His stepping down as CEO of the corporation he personally started, and has always expressly claimed he’d leave only in a coffin, certainly piqued plenty of interest.
When the reasons why became public, that chum in the water caused a media frenzy. The public loves a scandal. Throw in a racist, secret organization with Nazi ties, along with a good taking down of the rich and powerful, and they devour it.
Hélène, for some reason, stays out of it, so I can only imagine that André’s plan eventually worked after all. As an informant, her name would be kept top-secret, at least until all the dust has settled. And oh, how the dirt has been kicked up. The members of the Werwolf Order all seem to be quite eager to point the finger at one another and rat each other out. A sinking ship all around. The Order reaches almost every continent and every level of society. Anyone who can be tied to them takes a public hit.
For the past few weeks, I’ve received a postcard nearly every day, each of them star-themed which has cheered me up almost as much as knowing André is still alive.
“I still can’t believe it,” Yasmine says, sipping her wine and shaking her head. “I mean, I always knew the man was the right arsehole, but a Nazi?”
“Shocking,” I say, pretending to actually be shocked.
“From what I hear, it’s a complete shit show at Gaultier Financial. They’re talking about selling everything to Bank of America or Citibank or something. Obviously, they’d have to change the name. Thank God I left when I did. Modeling isn’t as horrid as I thought it would be. Plus, there are free trips to Milan and Paris so…” She shrugs and takes another sip of wine.
“Sounds nice.”
She swallows the large sip she just took and shakes her head. “Enough about me, what about you? I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it…”
“No,” I say with a shrug. I’ve come to terms with the fact that prison will always be part of me, even if I’m not guilty. “I’ve just moved on from it. I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing though.”
“I’m glad you did!” she says with a pleased smile. “I mean, Gaultier is going to prison, so life isn’t that bad.”
We both laugh. It almost makes me feel normal again. I knew that if anyone could bring me this far, it would be Yasmine.
There’s just one thing glaringly missing to get me all the way there.
When I get back to my place, I find yet another postcard in my mail. I’m surprised to see that it’s The Starry Night again. Then, I realize that it must have some significance. I eagerly turn it over, and my heart pumps double-time when I read the message.
Mon amour pour toi vivra plus longtemps que les étoiles.
Be there.
There’s a date and time included at the end.
All prior notes on the backs of his postcards repeated the same words as the first: Pour toujours.
I linger on the first sentence of this one, feeling a smile come to my face that’s so wide it hurts my cheeks. Noémie’s message to Victor on the back of her painting.
I can’t figure out the second part. Be there? Where? I’m sure he doesn’t mean fly back to Louvre in Paris.
I flip the card back to the front, wondering if there’s a message hidden there somewhere. It takes me a few guesses before I slap my forehead and laugh.
Two days later, I’m at the Guggenheim Museum, staring at Van Gough’s famous painting. Naturally, the reproduction on the postcard has nothing on the real thing. When 2:00 p.m. on the dot rolls around, I drag my eyes away from The Starry Night and scan the area around me, looking for André. When I don’t see him at first, I walk over to the edge of the winding wall circling up from the first floor to see if I can find him on the lower levels.
I’m bent over as far as possible when I hear a very familiar voice behind me.
“I see you still get my postcards.”
I pop up
, realizing my ass was probably giving everyone walking behind me a pretty good show.
Including André.
He has that same adorable but seductive smirk on his face and the flirtatious gleam in his eye. The only difference the past month or so has made is a slight thinning of his face and body. I can only attribute that to the stress he’s probably been under while in Paris, no doubt worrying about me as well.
“André,” I whisper, as though making sure he’s really here.
“Brielle,” he replies, his grin growing wider.
I rush into his arms, and enjoy the way his feel wrapped around me. He stiffens and hisses with pain as I squeeze tight.
“What is it?” I ask, pulling back to look up at him.
“Nothing,” he says with a tight smile.
“It’s not nothing.”
He pauses as he stares down at me. “I was stabbed in the back that day after talking to Hélène, on my way back to you.”
“André!” I gasp.
“It’s nothing. I’m healing fine.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Hey,” I say softly, placing my hand on his cheek. “You and I, at this point, we’re a team. Stop trying to protect me. You have to tell me the good and the bad. That’s what a couple does.” My heart stutters a bit at the word “couple.” The look on André’s face makes it melt.
“So you’re claiming me now, is that it?”
“All mine,” I say with a smile.
“In that case,” He says, wrapping his arm around my waist and leading me slowly along the spiral pathway of the museum, “I think it’s time I introduced you to my other favorite city.”
Chapter Fifty
André
“It’s gorgeous,” Brielle says, as we walk along the Promenade des Anglais in my hometown of Nice. The weather has cooperated spectacularly, making this part of the French Riviera seem even more like paradise than it already is.
The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance Page 24
