by Dee Willson
I think my persistence might be making matters worse. I need to back off. It’s not going to help if she thinks I’m out of control, stalking her, suffocating her. Maybe she just needs time. I can give her that.
Ten hours, twenty-four minutes, and nineteen seconds have passed since my last shot at reaching Tess. My cell is in pieces across the kitchen floor. I’m pacing like a madman. I can’t even bring myself to think about Valentine’s anymore. The most amazing date of my life is now nothing but an over-analyzed blur. Moments lumped into categories I’ve literally written on paper, blocked into squares with titles like freaked her out, worried her, aroused her, made her smile that smile.
There’s a bang at the door.
“Would you like me to get that, sir?”
I abandon my list. “I’ve got it, Clause, thank you.”
I know who it is.
I open the door and a bouquet of white daises is thrust into my chest, the force sending me reeling back.
“What the hell did you do to her?” roars Thomas.
I stare at the flowers strewn across the floor. There aren’t words to say what I did to her.
“Speak, Bryce. Tell me before I lose what little control I have over my temper.”
“I don’t know what happened.” I lean against the door jam.
Thomas points at the mess on the floor. “You gave her flowers. What did you do that requires groveling?”
“None of your business. And how did you—”
“None of my business, are you fucking kidding me? None of my business?” He takes a few steps, boots mashing delicate white petals. “She’s gone, Bryce. Gone!”
“What do you mean? Gone where?”
Thomas holds the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger like mother does, squeezing his eyes shut with a malevolent grunt.
“She left. She packed Abby’s and her stuff and took off.”
I try to absorb this.
“She wouldn’t just leave.”
The umpteen times she’s stormed out on me blend together to form an abominable picture. Her need to run from me is innate, a product of her history, our history, a natural defense.
“Shit, I should’ve known. I—I didn’t think she’d . . .”
“She would and she did,” seethes Thomas. “I warned you. I told you she wasn’t ready. I said this would happen and you didn’t listen. You wanted what you always want, to get laid.”
“It’s not like that. We have something—”
“Bullshit, Bryce. That’s how you play. Did you finally get what you wanted? Is that why she left? Did you push her too far?” What he can’t see in my eyes he can read in my head. “Fuck,” he spits.
This can’t be happening. Our night together, it wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t just leave.
“How do you know she’s packed and left town? Maybe she’s just out for the day.”
“She hasn’t returned my calls and her car’s been gone since yesterday,” says Thomas, pulling a hand through thick curls, one of many physical features that set us apart. “And I wanted to know what the hell was going on.”
I stare at him. “Unbelievable. You broke into her house?”
“Don’t you dare lecture me on ethics. Her luggage is gone, along with most of their clothes. She doesn’t plan on returning anytime soon.”
“I need to find her,” I mumble in shock.
“You’ve done enough. Go away. Eventually she’ll come home and I’ll be here for her. I’ll make her happy. I’ll keep her safe.”
I glare at my brother. As if I could move and leave Tess. As if I could forget.
“I have to find her.” A thought prickles. “She could be in danger. If he followed her, if the lost soul—”
“He didn’t. Why on earth would he go after her?”
“You know why.”
Thomas swipes an invisible irritant, dismissing the comment. “It was random. He had his fun, his fill with the MacKinnen girl. There’s no reason for him to pursue Tess. He split.”
I think about this for a moment.
“Thomas, why would he ransack her house?”
Thomas shrugs. “She piqued his interest in the café. Maybe he was attracted to her, liked her, and lost it when he got to the house and saw she had a husband and kid. I’m sure that’s it. It sucks that Sonia was killed, but it proves the douche got what he wanted and moved on.”
Thomas might be right, but still, I need to find Tess, just in case. But where would she go? Would she go back to Florida?
“She must have gone to stay with her in-laws.”
“Bryce, not everyone runs to their mommy and daddy. You don’t know her, so don’t even try to act like you do.”
“Where else would she go?” I say as Thomas looks away, stepping toward the open door. I reach for him and sense it immediately. “Tess isn’t in Florida. Why Paris, Thomas?”
Thomas jerks forward, easily releasing my grasp. “Her brother is there. And his girlfriend just left him.”
I would remember Tess mentioning this. She talked about Stephen less than twenty-four hours ago, at dinner. I study Thomas, prodding the sudden blockade in his mind. “How do you . . .?”
Thomas turns quickly. “It’s irrelevant,” he says. “Leave her be.”
I feel it, but can’t believe it. “Tell me you didn’t—”
“Shut up. Of course I did. I wanted to know where she went.”
This is the kind of behavior that gets Thomas into trouble. He’s impulsive, intrusive.
“It’s bad enough you broke into her house, but to read her email—”
“Just leave her alone.” He kicks the doorframe.
“I need to find her.”
“You need to fuck off.” His hands ball into fists. “She’ll come home when she’s ready. And when she does, you’ll be long gone.”
That is enough.
“I’m in love with her, Thomas.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s not. I didn’t intend to hurt you, I would never—”
“Stay away from her or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I yell back. “You can’t keep me away from her. And you have no right to try.”
Thomas kicks the door again. “She is mine,” he growls. He turns and storms out, slamming the door behind him.
I should follow him. I should set him straight right now. I should knock his self-serving block off and finish this argument once and for all. I should, but I don’t.
I slam the door.
I need to find Tess. Now.
Eleven hours ago Thomas stomped out of here, and I locked myself in my office on a quest. I’m crashing from an adrenaline high mixed with limited shut-eye, yet I can’t pry myself from the chair. I’ve called airlines, hotels, rental car companies, and when hysteria set in I pulled friends and family into the frenzy. All my talents as a Keeper, all my connections, and I can’t find Tess or her brother Stephen.
Something is wrong. Seriously wrong. I feel it in my bones.
My new phone rings and I dive for it. “Tess?”
“Son, please sit.” My father’s tone has me frantic before my ass even hits the floor. “I have yet to locate your lady’s brother, but,” he pauses, hesitant, “there is a Jane Doe at Pitie-Salpetriere.”
I swallow the silence in one lump.
“It could be anyone.” My hands are trembling. My father wouldn’t call me with this news if he didn’t think . . .
“Son, this woman is five-foot-eight, one-hundred-thirty pounds, and has long dark hair and green eyes.” He’s describing the flesh-and-blood Tess, and it steals my breath like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“There is more,” Dad says. “She, this Jane Doe, is alive but badly beaten: broken bones, burns, bite marks.” The line falls quiet, rocking my soul to its core. “This has lost soul written all over it, Son.”
Gravity pulls the phone to the floor.
I need to get to Paris.
Now.
Pa
ris
“Pitie-Salpetriere Hopital. Rapide!” I say, slamming the door of the Bentley my dad arranged to meet me at the airport. He wanted to be here with me, but I insisted he stay away. This is going to be difficult enough.
The driver steps on the gas. “Etes-vous bien, Monsieur?” he asks, eyeing me in the rearview mirror.
“No, I’m not all right.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. I look like shit. My eyes have burrowed into my skull, and my olive skin exudes stress, a shade greener than Oscar the Grouch. I haven’t shaved in days, and I’ve ripped the sleeve of my leather jacket somewhere between my front door and the runway tarmac. No wonder airport security gave me such a hard time. If I hadn’t been boarding a charter jet, I doubt they’d have let me through.
Intuition insists the Jane Doe is Tess. The entire flight I fought this feeling, hoping beyond hope that I’m wrong. Maybe our past, the pasts I’ve shared with Tess’s soul, have me jaded, convinced this is our only destiny. I shake this and concentrate on Abby. Lost souls of this kind seldom hurt children, especially kids with new souls. Children have nothing they want. But this particular lost soul has been unpredictable. I close my eyes and make a silent wish, hoping Abby is safe with Tess’s brother, Stephen. Wherever he is.
Brother. Thomas. I sigh and reach for my cell. For once, Thomas answers my call. The conversation, if you can call it that, is short. I tell him about Dad’s call and he doesn’t say a word. When I say I’m in Paris he hangs up.
“Nous voici, Monsieur,” says the driver, pulling the car under a sign announcing the hospital’s emergency entrance. He leans to open his door.
I tap him on the shoulder and shove my cell in my coat pocket.
“Merci.” I leap from the Bentley.
Once a gunpowder factory, the Pitie-Salpetriere was known for its criminally insane prisoners and even crazier rat population. In 1656, Louis XIV appointed architect Liberal Bruant to build the world’s largest hospital in place of the factory, located in the heart of Paris. My soul had come here in 1792, trying to help a lost soul who had been tossed into the guts of the hospital along with over three hundred other prostitutes swept from the streets of Paris. But I was too late. Two weeks later the hospital was stormed by a mob, and all three hundred women were dragged, still in chains, into the street and killed. The lost soul had found the peace she’d craved.
I hesitate at the entrance. I’ve stepped foot in a hospital only once in my lifetime, when Sofia was born. I’ve had even less experience with doctors. Bypassing the nurse at the desk, I head straight for the elevators, ignoring inquisitive eyes. I search the directory: cardiology, radiology, maternity. Intensive care, fourth floor.
The creaky elevator rises in slow motion, pausing at every floor. Each time the door opens, the odor that meets me turns my stomach. The police are bound to be watching the door. Will they let me see her? Do I qualify as her boyfriend, her lover . . . her anything? The elevator doors open and there aren’t any officers in sight, so I search for the nurse’s station. A plump woman in her early fifties looks up from her paperwork. She takes in my face. Then the tear in my jacket.
I decide to speak in English, in case she knows Tess isn’t French.
“There is an unidentified woman here. She’s been,” I can hardly say it, “beaten.” Without taking her eyes off me, the nurse lifts the phone and presses a red button. This can’t be good. “I think the Jane Doe might be Tess Morgan, a friend. Can you tell me what room she’s in?”
The nurse lowers the receiver and points to the hallway on the right. “Four-twenty-eight,” she says in English. Her mind is full of doubt. She’s not sure if she should be afraid of me or feel sorry for me.
I round the corner to three armed men in uniform. A fourth, hospital security, stops me mid-stride. “May I help you?” His English is brutal. One hand rests on the club at his side.
“I’m here to see Tess Morgan.” I pray they tell me there is no one here by that name. It takes all my restraint not to bowl these men over.
A police officer steps forward. “Are you a relative?” he says. He’s short but wiry. His thoughts tell me what I don’t want to hear. He wants to know how I know Mrs. Morgan.
“No,” I answer, clutching the bottom of my coat. I swear the earth might open and swallow me whole. How do they know her name? Has she come to? Is she speaking? “I’m her . . . I’m a friend.”
I fell asleep on Valentine’s Day thinking I was more, that Tess and I were beyond mere friendship. But she left without a word. Would she still call me a friend?
“Relatives only,” says the officer.
“I need to see her.” I push toward the door. An officer, the youngest of the three, pulls his gun. I search his mind. He wants to know how I know the woman in the room is Tess Morgan when the media is still referring to her as Jane Doe.
My voice is low when I say, “I need to see she’s all right.”
“You won’t be seeing anyone until you answer questions,” says another officer, his English rough. “Identification.” He leans in, peeking inside my coat as I reach for a pocket. I slap my passport into his palm. “You are not Canadian,” he says, flipping pages.
“No.”
“How do you—”
“Please,” I plead. “Tess has a five year-old daughter named Abby. Do you know where she is?” All three officers glance at each other, suddenly sympathetic. The hospital security guard walks away. “Where’s Abby?” I demand, too startled to be diplomatic.
The room door opens, and a young man steps out, his face red, eyes bloodshot. The first thing I notice is his clothes; he’s not dressed like a doctor. Then I spot the hair, the exact same shade as Tess’s. “Ce qui se passe?” he says. What’s going on?
“Stephen?” Part of me wants to pull this kid into a hug. He’s here, which means Tess isn’t alone. Part of me wants to throw a fist into the concrete wall. Stephen’s here, which means the woman in that room, the woman almost beaten to death, is really Tess.
The instant Stephen looks at me he knows who I am. “Bryce?”
I pluck my passport from the officer’s fingers and pass it to Stephen. The officer starts to protest, but Stephen raises a hand, studying my passport photo. He’s thinking that I look exactly like Tess’s description. “How did you—”
“Where’s Abby?” I say, grabbing his shoulder.
“She’s with a neighbor,” he says, turning toward the door. “I can’t bring her here.”
I sigh in relief. Abby is safe. Stephen takes a step back, and I realize I’ve been gripping his shoulder hard. Even if I couldn’t read his thoughts, I could see them churning in his eyes. He wants to know how I learned Tess was hurt. How I got here so fast. Why I screwed his grieving sister.
I look away. Tess has obviously told her brother about us. I make a move for the door, stopping when Stephen asks, “How did you know my sister was here?”
I stare at the police officer, the young one with the gun in his hand. Stephen isn’t the only one waiting for my response.
“I didn’t,” I say, lying. “My niece and Abby are in the same class at school. Their teacher mentioned Tess had taken Abby to Paris. I had business in Paris today and happened to catch the news while grabbing coffee at the airport. The description of the woman beaten at the park sounded an awful lot like Tess. I couldn’t leave Paris not knowing for sure.” I’d rehearsed these lines on the flight over. I’m not worried about the officers. My dad has my alibi covered. Its Stephen’s approval I want.
Stephen feigns a smile, obviously relieved someone is here to help him through this, and I’m struck by how young he looks. “I haven’t been here long,” he says. He can’t be a day over twenty-one. “My parents are on break in Rio. I’ve been trying to get in touch with them. Meyer’s grandparents are catching the next flight from Florida.”
I can’t stand another minute in this hallway. I nod toward to the door. “May I?” I look to Stephen. He takes a deep breath and p
ushes the door open.
In my mind I’d envisioned rushing to Tess’s side, holding her hand, maybe kissing her forehead. Now, with her before me, I’m paralyzed three feet from the bed. Her bloated face is several shades of black, blue, and purple, her eyes difficult to locate. Separating the bruises are pieces of white gauze, most spotting thick gobs of blood. A thin cloth is wrapped around her scalp, arched rows of staples peeking through the mesh. Her hair falls in a dull, tangled mass.
A monitor beeps.
I step closer, reaching for the bed. Layers of blankets form over strange lumps barely distinguishable as body parts. Tubes and wires run from bandages to machines and bags. Her lips are swollen and stitched.
I want to touch her. I want to hold her. To do either would hurt her.
A tortured whine pulls my stare from Tess. Stephen’s entire body trembles as he crumbles into a chair, face buried in his hands. I know I should say something, anything, but I’m at a loss for words. I round the bed and stand beside Stephen, awkwardly patting his back. His despair is so profound I struggle to block his thoughts.
I focus on Tess, trying to read her, to feel her. The silence is chilling.
“The cops think that whoever attacked her had some sort of dog or animal,” says Stephen, voice choked. His stare locks on his sister’s hand. The red nail polish has been removed, nails torn short. Taped bandages attempt to cover cuts and blood-stained needles that run fluids into her veins. Her skin is dark and distorted. These hands look nothing like the hands I know. Tess’s hands are beautiful, delicate, and capable of bringing me to my knees. I mumble something unintelligible, not even trying to be discreet.
“Tess, can you hear me?” I lean over her tender form. Her cheek twitches and I catch a train of thought. She knows it’s me, knows I’m here. Her mind flips scenes and I snap to attention.
