Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,56

evenings spent with me as time lost. Time that might be best spent in pursuit of a real love—constant and true, not this shadow. Not what we have shared, a flameless passion—yet one that has still brought me a kind of happiness. A smile to my face that I thought had been erased by time.

Yours in friendship,

“We found her,” I whisper. I give Alexandre a half smile.

We’re nestled on the couch in my apartment. Alone. Thankfully. My parents left a note saying they’d gone out to meet some friends. While I’m relieved I didn’t need to come up with an excuse for why we’re breathless and dusty and dripping with cobwebs, it finally strikes me how terrifyingly close I was to getting busted by the police and my parents. My heart races, wild from nearly getting caught and our new discoveries. I move my fingers across the page delicately, like if I’m not gentle, I could bruise Leila.

“We did find her,” Alexandre whispers back. “But there are even more questions now.”

“I know. Who was she? And where did she come from and who died? And—”

“What’s jannah? It’s not a French word.”

I look at him, surprised, though I don’t know why I’m shocked. It’s not as if everyone would know that word. “It means heaven in Arabic. Even Muslims who aren’t Arab know that jannah is what paradise is called in the Quran. Leila was Muslim.”

“In Paris. In the 1840s. A Muslim woman. Wow. An immigrant or refugee, maybe? Maybe that’s why she says she was alone.”

“And her one true love died—” My voice catches in my throat.

Alexandre puts his hand on my arm. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my words catching in my throat. “This . . . this feels like eavesdropping on a private conversation. We’re trespassing on other people’s lives.”

“But I thought you wanted to find her.”

“I did. I do. Dumas became famous, and she’s not even a footnote in history. I want to find out more. There has to be more there.” I don’t add that I need more for my essay, too.

Alexandre shifts closer to me on the couch. “We can go back, but maybe not tonight?”

He wraps his arm around my shoulders. I gingerly fold up the letter and place it on the coffee table. It might be the only piece of Leila that still exists—it is precious. Then I collapse into Alexandre’s arms. He kisses the top of my head. Something squeezes my heart. I should be floating from this discovery, exhilarated and adrenaline crashing from our near miss with the cop. I am, but I also feel, I don’t know, conflicted? A pinch of melancholy, even. Maybe because the raven-haired lady is real now. Fantasy can be quixotic and swashbuckling. But the real Leila didn’t live in a starry-eyed romance; she was a woman, utterly alone, who fought to survive.

“You’re right,” Alexandre says. “This can’t be it. This is only one note from her. If there’s more, we have to be the ones to find it. Besides, this is one hell of a breakup letter. I’m dying to see what else she’s written. I can’t wait to tell Uncle Gérard about this. He won’t believe it.”

I look into his hopeful eyes. “Am I ever going to meet this uncle you keep talking about? I feel like he’s the virtual third musketeer on our quest.”

“Oh. I . . . well, he’s a bit antisocial . . . and boring,” Alexandre stammers.

I know I can be slightly paranoid at times, but it’s weird to me that every time I suggest maybe meeting his uncle, Alexandre veers away from the topic. I’m about to press him, but I freeze at the sounds of keys jangling and footsteps in the hall. I jump up and run into my room to hide the letter, then race back and take a seat at the opposite end of the sofa from Alexandre.

He chuckles. I give him a raised eyebrow in response. Yeah, I’m a prudish American. Deal with it. I don’t want to get busted by my parents while making out with a random French dude they’ve never