She lets go of my shoulder and forces out a steadying breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not just superstitious. You’re a believer.”
Pauline bristles. “No, of course not.”
But the no is too quick, too forceful.
“What are you ashamed of?” I ask. “You’re with a group of people whose whole job is to believe in ghosts.”
“I’m not ashamed of anything,” she retorts, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to believe in ghosts.”
“But you do.”
She sighs. Hesitates. “What was it you said? It is easy not to believe, and then once you experience something, it’s hard not to?”
The train pulls into the station.
“I have … seen things, once or twice. Things I could not explain.” Pauline shakes her head as the doors slide open. “Mon dieu, I sound like a fool.”
I shrug. “Not to me.” She manages a small, tight-lipped smile, then shoos me off the train onto the platform.
It seems busy, even busier than usual. People are muttering under their breaths and clustering in front of electronic signs that show the different Metro lines, red warnings popping up beside them. First one, then two, then four.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“It looks like our train is not the only one having trouble,” says Pauline.
“There’s no way Thomas could be doing all that,” says Jacob. He looks at me, a little nervous. “Right?”
I want to believe him. But I don’t. The warnings flash, bright red, and all I can see are the poltergeist’s eyes, the way the crimson seemed to spread out into the air around him.
First comes mischief, then comes menace, then mayhem.
The more trouble poltergeists cause, the more powerful they get.
We have to hurry.
I turn to Pauline, holding out the address for Sylvaine Laurent. “Lead the way.”
“Tell me, Cassidy,” says Pauline as we walk. “Why are you so interested in this family?”
“Mom says I’ve always been naturally curious.”
She raises a brow. “Is that all? Or is there another reason you wish to visit the Laurents?”
I shift my weight from foot to foot. “Do you really want to know?”
Pauline seems to genuinely consider it. “No, I think not,” she says, then sighs. “But you should probably tell me anyway.”
So, I do.
I tell her about ghosts and poltergeists, about the fact that I somehow woke one poltergeist up and now it’s following me, causing all kinds of trouble.
Pauline blinks, her hand drifting to the charm around her neck. “And the Laurents … ?”
“They’re the poltergeist’s family,” I say. “I’m hoping if I learn what really happened to Thomas, it will help me send him on.”
Pauline starts to speak, but an emergency vehicle whips past, sirens wailing. She waits for them to fade, then starts again.
“And why is it your job to send this spirit on?”
“That’s a great question!” says Jacob, but I ignore him.
“I guess because I can. A year or so ago, I almost died, and now I can cross the Veil—that’s the place between this world and the one with the ghosts—and my friend Lara says it’s kind of like paying back a debt.”
“That seems like a lot of pressure for a girl so young.”
“Oh, I don’t have to do it alone,” I say. “I have Jacob.”
She raises a brow. “Jacob?”
“He’s my best friend,” I say, adding, “He’s a ghost.”
This time both eyebrows go up. “I see.” And despite what she just said about believing, I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
When I tell her that, she sighs. “I believe that you believe.”
I shake my head. “Why is it that when kids believe in something, adults write it off as imagination, but when adults believe in something, people assume it’s true?”
“I’m not sure anyone would assume this is true.”
“But you just said you’ve seen things. You said you believed.”
Pauline shakes her head. “Belief is not a blanket, Cassidy. It doesn’t cover everything. Forgive me. There’s a big difference between believing in the supernatural in the general sense and believing the twelve-year-old girl you’re escorting across Paris is a ghost hunter with a dead sidekick.”
“Excuse me,” says Jacob. “Who is she calling sidekick?”
Before I can explain that he’s more of a partner in crime, Pauline stops, gesturing to a lemon-yellow building with white accents and flower baskets in the windows. “Here we are.”
It’s an old-fashioned apartment building. Lara didn’t give me an apartment number, but a quick scan of the buzzers running down the right side says that “Mme Laurent” lives in 3A. A man is walking out of the building, and I catch the front door before it can swing closed behind him. Pauline and I slip inside.
We’re climbing the stairs when my nerves finally catch up.
What I’m doing is ridiculous; it’s insane.
“Agreed,” says Jacob.
I’m hoping Lara’s knack for investigation paid off and that I’m even in the right place.
But it’s also the only lead I have.
I reach 3A, and my hand hesitates over the wood for a long second before I swallow, and knock.
A few moments later, a girl answers the door.
She’s maybe a year or two younger than me, in gold sneakers, jeans, and a pink-and-white sweater. Her skin is fair and her light brown hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, glossy and straight (I have no idea how people get hair like that—mine’s always been wild). The white stem of a lollipop sticks out the side of her mouth.
“Bonjour?” she says, tipping her chin.
I glance over my shoulder at Pauline, but she says nothing, just stands there unhelpfully, so I turn back.
“Hi,” I reply in English. “Um, parlez-vous anglais?” I ask, mustering some French (and definitely butchering it).
The girl considers me, then nods.
“Yes,” she says proudly, “I go to an international school, and they make us learn. It is a … clunky language, n’est-ce pas?”
“Sure,” I say, just glad she speaks it. “Are you Sylvaine Laurent?”
She draws back a little. “Mais non,” she says with a nervous laugh. “I am Adele. Sylvaine is my mother.” She calls back into the apartment, “Maman!” and then slips away without so much as a goodbye.
A moment later, a woman appears, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looks like Adele, only older, her light brown hair hanging loose down to her shoulders. She even tilts her head the same way as she comes to the door.
“Oui?” she asks, addressing Pauline.
But Pauline shakes her head. “C’est pas moi,” she says, nodding at me. So I guess I’m on my own here. Sylvaine Laurent stares down at me, a wary look in her eyes.
“Hi, Madame Laurent,” I say, trying to muster Mom’s easy smile, or Dad’s confidence. “I’m researching a story about your great-uncle, Thomas Laurent.”
Sylvaine frowns a little. “What kind of story?”
“Well,” I say, faltering, “um, I guess it’s a research story?”
“This is going smoothly,” says Jacob, rocking on his heels.
“How did you hear about Thomas?” presses Sylvaine. For a second, I’m just glad she knows who I’m talking about, but the excitement wears off when her frown becomes an outright scowl.
“Oh, right.” I swallow, wishing I were a little older, or at least a little taller. “Well, my parents are hosting a television show about ghosts in Paris, and we were down in the Catacombs, and I heard—”
But Madame Laurent is already shaking her head.
“What happened to Thomas happened a long time ago,” she says, her tone cold. “It is not fit for speaking.”
I look to Pauline, silently begging
her to say something, to intercede, but she only shrugs.
The girl, Adele, reappears in the foyer, lingering behind her mother, clearly curious.
“Please, Madame Laurent,” I try again. “I just want to help—”
She doesn’t give me a chance to finish, turning her attention to Pauline. They exchange a few words in rapid French, and then our Paris guide brings her hand to my shoulder.
“Come, Cassidy,” Pauline says. “We must return to your parents.”
“But I need to know—”
“Non,” says Madame Laurent, her face flushing pink. “You do not. History is history. It is past. And private.”
And with that she shuts the door in my face.
I sag back against the landing in defeat.
One step forward, two steps back, and zero steps closer to sending Thomas on.
“You tried,” says Pauline. “It did not work. These things happen.” She tugs a slip of paper from her pocket. A schedule. “Your parents should be on their way to the Pont Marie. We can meet them there—”
“You knew she wouldn’t talk to me.”
Pauline shrugs again. “I suspected, perhaps. The French are private people.”
“But you didn’t say anything!” I cry, exasperated. “You let me come all this way. Why didn’t you warn me?”
Pauline turns her sharp eyes on me. “Would it have stopped you?”
I open my mouth to protest, then close it again.
“That’s what I thought.”
I want to shout, to say that it has to work. That Thomas is getting stronger, and I have to learn his story so I can remind him who he is, so that the mirror will work and I can send him on before someone gets hurt, or worse.
Instead, I press my palms against my eyes to clear my head and follow Pauline down the stairs and out into the sun.
We walk to the bridge in silence, the trip punctuated only by the occasional siren, an emergency vehicle rushing past. I tell myself it’s not Thomas. I hope it’s not Thomas.
“The upside,” observes Jacob, “is that if it is Thomas, it seems like he’s no longer fixated on you.”
Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.
Jacob glances over his shoulder, frowns.
What is it? I ask silently.
He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing.”
The Seine comes into sight, and I spy my parents leaning against the stone lip of a bridge, waiting while Anton and Annette adjust their cameras.
Paris has a ton of bridges crisscrossing the river and running from the banks to the two islands that float in the middle. This particular bridge doesn’t look all that special—it’s the same pale stone as so much of the city—but as my shoes hit the edge, the Veil pulses, rippling around me. Jacob shoots me a warning look, and I force the Veil back, manage to keep my feet.
By the time Pauline and I reach Mom and Dad, they’ve already started filming.
“Paris has many ghost stories,” begins Mom. “Some of them scary and some of them strange, some of them gruesome and some simply sad. But few are as tragic as the ghost of the Pont Marie.”
Jacob looks over his shoulder again, and I assume he’s just keeping an eye out for Thomas.
“During World War Two,” explains Dad, “the Resistance relied on spies to steal information, smuggle secrets from the Nazi forces.”
“Hey, Cass,” says Jacob, but I shush him.
“It’s said that the wife of a Resistance fighter became a spy in an unconventional way. She began seeing a Nazi soldier and took his secrets back to her husband. The woman and her husband would meet here, on the Pont Marie, at midnight …”
“Cass,” whispers Jacob again.
“What is it?” I hiss.
“Someone’s following us.”
What?
I turn to follow Jacob’s gaze, already lifting the camera viewfinder to my eye. I brace myself, expecting to see Thomas. But instead I see a girl with a high ponytail and gold sneakers that catch the light.
Adele.
To her credit, she doesn’t try to blend in or hide. She doesn’t even pretend to be looking at anyone or anything else. She just stands at the edge of the bridge, arms folded and head cocked, the white lollipop stick still in her mouth.
“But one cold winter night,” continues Mom, “the woman came to the bridge, and her husband did not. He never showed, and she froze to death right here, secrets frozen on her tongue …”
I walk up to Adele.
She’s a good head shorter than me, but she stares up, unblinking.
“How long have you been following me?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “Since you left our house.”
“Why?”
“I heard what you said to my mother.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you really interested in Thomas Laurent?”
“I told your mom—I’m researching a story.”
“Why?”
“For school,” I lie.
“It’s summer.”
“Fine,” I say. “I just want to know.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why?”
I let out an exasperated breath. “Because I’m a ghost hunter, and Thomas Laurent is a ghost. Actually, he’s a poltergeist, which is like a ghost but stronger. I accidentally woke him up or something, and now he’s causing all kinds of problems, and I have to send him on to the other side, but I can’t do that until I figure out who he is—was—because he doesn’t remember.”
Jacob puts his head in his hands and groans, but Adele simply stares at me, chewing the inside of her cheek, and I wonder if the language barrier ate up half my words.
But then, after a long moment, she nods.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I believe you.”
She has a small backpack slung over one shoulder, and as I watch, she unzips it and pulls out a dozen cards, their edges fraying. “I brought you these,” she says, holding them out so I can see. They’re photographs, black and white, and faded with age.
One of the photographs is of a boy. I recognize Thomas instantly.
The round face, the wild curls, the smile. Not menacing here, but open, cheerful. Something rattles through me at the sight of this boy, not faded but solid, bright-eyed, alive.
Real.
I take the photos, turning through the stack. In the next one, Thomas isn’t alone. A boy, several years older than him, stands beside him, one hand resting playfully on the younger boy’s head. That must be …
“That’s Richard,” says Adele. “Thomas’s older brother. My great-grandfather.”
The third photo is a family portrait, the two boys side by side, framed by their parents, who stand stiff-backed and straight. And in the last photo, the older boy, Richard, stands alone in front of a Parisian building, his eyes a little sad. I recognize the doorway, the arch of the windows. I was just there. The building where the Laurents still live.
“Do these photos help you?” asks Adele.
I nod. “Thank you.”
It’s not Thomas’s story, but it’s something. After all, photos are memories pressed into paper. Maybe showing them to Thomas will jog his memory. But in order for that to work, I have to find him again.
“Cass!” calls Mom as she and Dad walk over, the crew on their heels.
Jacob sniffles a little and retreats, repelled by the sage-and-salt pouches I planted in their pockets and bags. “We’re done here. How was your adventure? And who’s this charming girl?”
“Adele Laurent,” she answers before I can. “I am helping Cassidy with her”—and I have to resist the urge to throw my hand over her mouth before she finishes—“research project.”
Pauline looks surprised, but Mom only beams. “How nice!”
“That’s wonderful,” adds Dad.
“Yeah, she’s been super helpful,” I say.
I’m about to offer to walk the girl home, a perfect opportunity to slip away
and maybe learn more about Thomas, but Adele says, “You are filming a show about ghosts, n’est pas?”
“That’s right,” says Dad. “We’re on our way to our next location. Our last one, actually.”
Adele brightens. And then, before I can get a word in, she adds, “Cassidy said I could come with you.”
I most certainly did not.
“Of course,” says Mom. “If it’s all right with your parents?”
Adele shrugs. “Maman doesn’t mind where I go, so long as I’m careful.”
Lucky, I think.
“Well,” adds Dad, gesturing across the bridge to an island, where a cathedral rises against the skyline. “All we have left to film is Notre-Dame.”
“C’est cool!” says Adele.
As soon as my parents turn to go, I round on the girl. “I didn’t say that you could come.”
She shrugs. “I know, but it’s summer. There’s nothing to do. And this sounds much more fun than watching television. Besides, you owe me. I helped you.”
“Yeah, you did,” I say. “And, look, thanks for the photos, but it’s not safe, and you need to go home.”
“I can help you more,” she counters stubbornly. “I speak French, and I fit into small places—”
“Adele—”
“Plus, he is my family, not yours.”
“Girls!” calls Mom over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”
Adele smiles, and jogs to catch up.
And somehow, just like that, I’ve gained a shadow.
We weave through the streets, the twin stone towers of Notre-Dame rising ahead of us.
As we walk, I turn through the old photos again, searching for clues. I keep coming back to the one with the two brothers. They’re both smiling, and Richard has one hand planted in the mop of Thomas’s hair. Before, I was focused on Thomas, but this time, I can’t stop looking at Richard. His hair is lighter than Thomas’s, tucked beneath a cap, his face leaner and more angled, but it’s his eyes that stop me. They’re happy, bright, and they remind me of someone.
“He kind of looks like you,” I whisper, tipping the photo toward Jacob. A shadow crosses Jacob’s face, and for an instant he looks distracted, sad.
“I don’t see it,” he mumbles, looking away.
“Who are you talking to?” asks Adele, bobbing along beside me.
Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2) Page 10
