Intersect: The Parallel Duet, Book 2

by O'Roark, Elizabeth

  When I finally get through Customs and out the doors, I discover Paris is every bit as hot as D.C. and even more congested, if that’s possible. The air smells more like gas fumes than anything reminiscent of art and haute cuisine.

  Once I’m in a cab, there’s more waiting to endure. The highway is hopelessly clogged by morning rush hour, and only the motorcycles manage to make headway, whizzing through the narrow spaces between cars. It takes nearly an hour before we are finally in central Paris, with its maze of tightly lined streets, and another ten minutes to Montmartre. The bell tower of Sacre-Coeur looms ahead of us the whole way, a jagged cutout in the blue sky. I wish the sight didn’t feel as ominous as it does.

  “Vous êtes pres,” the driver says. I don’t speak French, but I can guess what he’s saying. And I wish he were wrong, because 37 Rue des Trois Freres is not a hotel like I assumed. It’s not even a business as far as I can tell—merely a bright red doorway with a street number beside it, otherwise unmarked.

  I came here solely because we’ve run out of options, and staring at the simple, unassuming building makes me realize what a fool’s errand this has actually been. If Sarah isn’t on the other side of that door, and I doubt she is, we are fucked. I thank the driver and climb out with my overnight bag in hand, preparing myself for the possibility—a dwindling possibility—that I’m about to meet Quinn’s aunt.

  Everyone wants something, I remind myself. Even a murderous time traveler. I just need to figure out what she wants more than Quinn’s spark. If it’s in my power, I’ll give it to her.

  I knock, and after a moment there is shuffling, and the door opens. The woman who answers is old and stooped. She is definitely not Sarah, and seems an unlikely partner-in-crime for a time traveler bent on destruction.

  “Bonjour,” she says. “Souhaitez-vous que je vous lise les lignes de la main?”

  I’m ill-equipped to have the conversation I need to right now. I nod, though I have no idea what I’m agreeing to. I just hope to God she doesn’t start to undress.

  She opens the door and I follow her into a small shop. Tiny drawers line the walls, along with thousands of glass vials, leading me to wonder if witches are her customer base, because this definitely looks like someplace a witch would shop. Painstakingly I put together a sentence.

  “Je suis désolé, je suis ici parce que...” I am sorry. I am here because… This is all I have. I don’t know how to say search or look or need to find in French. I sure as hell don’t know how to say time traveler. I begin fumbling with my phone, looking for a translation when she stops me.

  “Why don’t we speak English instead?” she asks. “Your accent is atrocious.”

  I laugh and sigh in relief at the same time. “Yes, I know.”

  She’s still scowling. “I mean, it’s truly, truly terrible. I barely even understood you. You should work on that.”

  I nod, torn between laughing and rolling my eyes. “I will.”

  “A foreign child on this soil for one day speaks better French.”

  I see she’s getting hung up on this, so I decide to nudge her along to something I actually care about. “So the reason I’m here is that—”

  “You want a reading, yes? Of your palm?”

  In my sleep-deprived haze it takes me a moment to understand what she is asking. A palm reader? Why the hell would Sarah need a palm reader? Can’t she just jump to the future and find out for herself? “Well, not exactly. I—”

  “Let me read your palm first. You can clearly afford it.”

  I’m obviously not getting any help unless I comply, so I slump into the chair she points to, letting my laptop bag sag to the ground. I’m so tired I could fall asleep right here. I hold out my hand and she takes it, smoothing her calloused fingers over the lines.

  “You’re American,” she begins, and I once more contain the urge to roll my eyes. I wish Quinn was here. She’d be every bit as cynical about palmistry as I am, even now that we’ve both watched people vanish in front of us.

  “You’re a swimmer.” Lucky guess. Lots of people swim. Maybe she smells the chlorine. “And you’re in love,” she adds. Again, lucky guess. She had at least a fifty percent chance of being correct with anyone she said that to.

  “A girl you’ve loved through many, many lifetimes.” This feels like slightly less of a lucky guess. Her eyes brighten. “She is carrying your child. No, wait. I see two children.”

  Shock has me attempting to withdraw my hand, but she holds it in her tight, clawlike grip. “That’s not possible,” I say quietly.

  She laughs. “Oh, I’m afraid it is, papa. As for the tumor…” I stiffen. Not a lucky guess. There’s no fucking way she could have known. Her face grows sad and she withdraws her hand. “You never know. That’ll be twenty euro. Vingt euro. You still need to learn French. You’ll be spending a lot of time here, Nicholas.”

  My eyes widen. “How did you know my name?”

  She looks at me reprovingly. “Well, I had to figure it out since you so rudely failed to introduce yourself. I am Cecelia, by the way.”

  Cecelia is definitely a hell of a lot more than a mere palm reader. I hand her a bill and with it, the photo of Sarah I got from the hospital security cameras. “I’m looking for this woman. Her name is Sarah Stewart. I saw something indicating she might visit you.”

  Cecelia slides the photo toward her, peering at it with a blank expression on her face. She nods. “Amelie, yes. She’s picking up a shipment.”

  My hand flexes against the edge of the table. “Amelie? The woman I’m looking for is named Sarah. She’s not French.”

  Cecelia nods. “Amelie Bertrand, oui. She is French.”

  I seriously doubt Quinn’s aunt, who grew up on a Pennsylvania farm, speaks with the flawless accent of a native. But God knows this woman would be sure to comment on it if she did not.

  “Maybe there’s another woman who looks like her?” I insist. “This woman is American.”

  She looks vaguely insulted. “She’s as French as I am. I’ve met her many times, the woman who does not age.”

  I inhale. I guess that means we’re talking about the same person after all. “Do you know when she’s coming in? Or where she’s staying?”

  She tilts her head, regarding me. For a moment I wonder if she’s even planning to answer. “Sometime over the next few days, I believe. She is quite secretive, you know. This is why she comes to me when things could so easily be delivered.”

  “What could be easily delivered?” I ask, thinking of the solution in the IV bag Sarah tried to switch out. Toxicology is still wholly unable to identify it. They said it appeared to be herbal, but that doesn’t mean it was harmless. I don’t trust that Sarah does anything without intending harm, at least where Quinn is concerned.

  She looks even more insulted than she did when I implied Sarah wasn’t French. “I can’t tell you that.”

  I press my fingers to my temples. “Look, the tumor you saw when you read my palm…it’s my girlfriend. My supposedly pregnant girlfriend. And I think this woman could help. I just need to talk to her.”

  She rises, gathering items from the shelf behind her. “I do not know where she is staying. I will text you when she arrives, but if you plan to kill her, please do so outside of my shop.”

  My head jerks backward. “Kill her?” I ask. “I’m not planning to kill anyone.”

  She turns to me again and raises a brow. “Aren’t you? If she has what you need to save your girlfriend, would you not do anything necessary to gain it?”

  I stiffen. Would I? I’ve never pictured killing someone in cold blood, but if Sarah had what I needed, if killing her would accomplish it, would I? Yes, for Quinn I would. “If I need something from her, killing her wouldn’t do me any good, would it?”

  She smiles. “Au contraire. I think killing her would solve everything.”

  24

  QUINN

  I promised Nick that while he was gone I’d stay with my mother or Caroline. I
also promised if I went to my mother’s I would not drive myself, but I feel so healthy it’s hard to take the whole thing seriously right now.

  When I arrive the morning after Nick leaves town, my mother’s eyes sweep me over, head-to-toe. “You’re glowing,” she says.

  I’m guessing it’s related to the sheer number of earth-shattering orgasms I’ve had over the past day, but my mother and I don’t have the kind of relationship where I’d share that with her. “Yes, I…feel good.”

  I sit at the kitchen table while she moves around the room. “You want to explain why you’re glowing?” she asks, her mouth pinched.

  I heave a sigh. “It would seem Jeff’s already told you.”

  She glances at me from the counter, where she’s pouring me sweet tea, though I didn’t ask for it. “You’re dating your doctor, apparently.” She returns her gaze to the glass. I get the feeling she’s struggling to control her words. “I’m surprised at you, Quinn,” she finally says. Her surprised at sounds an awful lot like disappointed in, but instead of feeling guilty, I’m irritated. Nick and I did nothing wrong, but we are getting endless shit for the decision to be together, a decision that truly has only hurt two people and will ultimately be in their best interest.

  “I didn’t cheat on Jeff.”

  She sets the tea down in front of me, so heavily it sloshes over the sides. “Even if you didn’t, you need to realize that love means staying focused on the commitment you’ve made, not grasping like a child at the first shiny thing you see.”

  A thin seam of rage spikes in my chest. “That is not what happened, and you need to start remembering that I’m the one you’re related to.”

  “Of course I remember,” she says. “But you can’t expect me not to say anything when I hear you were cheating on your fiancé.”

  “I wasn’t cheating. And he’s my ex-fiancé now. Who’s been stalking me since we broke up, waiting in the lobby of Caroline’s building, following me when I won’t talk to him, forcing his way into my hospital room when I’m unconscious.”

  “Hospital room?” she repeats. “You were in the hospital? Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I flush. I didn’t tell her because I was a little occupied once Nick and I left. “I had another blackout. Anyway, a woman came in, wearing a nurse’s uniform, and replaced my saline with something. Nick stopped the IV in time.”

  Her hand flutters to her chest. “My God. That’s… insane. Why?”

  My shoulders sag. “That’s part of the reason I’m here. They didn’t catch her but they did find a receipt she left behind and they were able to trace it.” I look up. “Her name is Sarah Stewart.”

  I watch my mother’s face, waiting for it to sink in. It does, first as confusion and then astonishment and finally denial. “Oh. But that’s…no. You think it’s your dad’s sister behind this?”

  “What are the odds she isn’t? It seems like too great a coincidence, doesn’t it?”

  “Your aunt would have no reason to do this. She’s never even met you.”

  I feel certain this will not be a productive question, but I have to ask. “Could there be something she wanted to inherit, maybe? Something in the family that would pass on to her instead of me if I weren’t around?”

  I want to see a light dawn in her eyes, some hint that what I’ve said rings a bell, but instead her arms cross and her brow furrows.

  “That’s ridiculous. Anything your father left to me goes to you if I die. Anything you have goes to whoever you want. He didn’t leave her anything.”

  “So you have no idea why she’d try to kill me?”

  She stares at the table. “It can’t be her. It must be a coincidence. The woman’s never even met you.”

  “Mom,” I say gently, tapping her hand to get her attention. “This matters. For a lot of reasons. We think she might have some answers about the brain tumor. If there’s something you’re not telling me, please…I need to know.”

  She hesitates, and in that hesitation I realize she knows something. Something she has no plans to admit. She rises from the chair. “I know nothing about her and I’ve never met the woman.” She opens the refrigerator. “So what should we have for lunch?”

  * * *

  Nick calls in the afternoon, his voice groggy from being awake most of the last forty-eight hours. In typical fashion he’s mostly worried about me, when he’s the one in a foreign country pursuing a potential murderer. “How are you? Did Caroline drive you to your mom’s?”

  “Something like that,” I reply.

  “Quinn…” he growls.

  “It’s fine! I’m here safe and sound. You can punish me for it when you get home.”

  He laughs low in his chest. “I think you’d enjoy the way I’d punish you too much.”

  A small fire starts burning in my stomach. “Remind me of that when you get home. Did you find anything today?”

  He sighs. “Yeah. The address I had? It wasn’t a hotel—it was a palm reader who insisted on doing a reading. And it was unsettling because she got so many things right.”

  I groan. “Let me guess: she said you were American and wanted to be happy? The one palm reader I ever went to told me something was drawing me to Europe.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Who isn’t drawn to visiting Europe? It’s like saying you’re committed to breathing oxygen.”

  He laughs but it fades away quickly. “She was slightly more specific, babe. She knew about your brain tumor. And she knew my name.”

  The fine hairs on the back of my arms stand on end. “Oh….I…wow.”

  “Yeah,” he says. He takes a deep breath, releases it. “Cecelia—the palm reader—also said you’re pregnant.”

  My heart begins to race. It’s impossible. I’m on the pill, my period is due any second now and it’s only been twenty-four hours. I’m not sure I could even have conceived anything yet. I force a laugh. “Wow, is it like some kind of vampire baby who grows at superhuman speed?”

  It’s disturbingly quiet on the other end of the line. “Maybe she got that wrong.” He doesn’t sound like he means it though.

  It’s too much to think about right now. And too ridiculous. I couldn’t possibly be pregnant and even if time traveling exists, I refuse to begin believing in palm readings, tarot cards or anything like it. “Did she know anything about Sarah?”

  “Yeah. She’s met her several times but doesn’t have an address for her.”

  I’m both relieved and disappointed. I guess I held some small hope this might work, but mostly I just want him back, and safe. “So then you’re done, right? And you’re coming home?”

  He exhales. “Not exactly. This woman sells…I don’t even know what she sells. It looked like an old-time apothecary, the kind of thing you’d associate with England in the 1600s. Anyway, your aunt is supposed to be coming in at some point. She’s going to let me know as soon as she gets there.”

  With his words, my heart is hollowed out, empty. “At some point?” I ask. “That could be…that could be more than two weeks from now.”

  “I know,” he says.

  He sounds tortured by it. And I’m tortured by it. This might be all the time I have and he’s the way I want to spend it. Him and only him. “Come home,” I beg. “This isn’t worth it. Please.”

  “Don’t do that to me,” he whispers. “You know I have to stay. I have to see what she knows and what she wants. It’s the only way I can think of to help you and I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t.”

  “And what happens when you find her?” I ask desperately, pacing the room. “She’s more likely to kill you than she is to sit down and have a nice heart-to-heart.”

  He pauses. “Actually, Cecelia suggested that killing her would solve everything.”

  A startled laugh escapes my throat. “Killing her? Holy shit, Parisian palm readers are dark.” He’s silent in response. “Why are you not laughing? It’s obviously a completely insane thing to say.”r />
  “Quinn,” he says reluctantly, “it’s…something to think about. Remember what Rose told us? That stealing someone’s spark can strengthen yours? Well, maybe if you steal Sarah’s it will cure this thing.”

  My mouth falls open. I can’t believe Nick, of all people, is in favor of this. “Your career is dedicated to saving lives. You cannot actually be suggesting I kill a woman in cold blood on the off chance it might allow me to live?”

  “She tried to kill you first, remember?”

  “Nick,” I breathe. “I…I don’t even know what to say. We have no idea if she was actually trying to kill me and I just…no. I can’t kill anyone. I’d never be able to live with the guilt.”

  “I could live with it,” he growls.

  It’s easy to say when you haven’t done it yet. I have though. I wake each morning sick about what I might have done to Ryan, and it wasn’t even this version of me who’s responsible. “No,” I tell him. “I won’t let you do that for me, if it would work anyway, and it wouldn’t.”

  “I’m just saying it’s something to think about.”

  I can’t. I won’t. If my desperation to stay alive is going to turn me into a monster, I don’t deserve to live in the first place.

  * * *

  I wake early the next morning and come downstairs with my bag packed. My mother is already up, sitting pale and bleary-eyed, both palms pressed to a cup of coffee.

  Her eyes go to my bag and her face falls. “You’re leaving already?”

  We haven’t always gotten along, especially of late, but I hate that I’m disappointing her. “There’s a doctor in New Jersey I need to talk to. Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I was thinking we could spend the day together,” she says quietly. Her palms press harder to the coffee cup. They are nearly bloodless. “We could go to Philadelphia and get lunch, go to the Barnes Foundation. You always loved that when you were little.”