you’re hiding—”
“Hiding?” he interjects. His hand rattles the gearshift, startling me.
But he releases his fingers, stretching them out.
He seems genuinely confused. “I thought that’s why … I thought you knew …”
“Knew what?”
His brow is tight with frustration, like he expects me to admit something, say something. But what?
I inspect him from beneath my lashes, suddenly self-conscious of my wet, tangled hair and bandaged forehead.
All this time I’ve been wondering who Aksel is. Has he been wondering the same about me? Disjointed thoughts thread together, weaving into a recognition. Aksel’s scrutinizing looks aren’t because he is hiding something, but because he thinks I am? Forcing air into my lungs, I start talking rapidly, deliberately. “In the hallway, I saw it in your eyes, but I didn’t realize …” I stare over at Aksel, deciphering my tangled thoughts.
“You recognized me,” I conclude, “didn’t you?”
Aksel’s gaze is penetrating. I wish I could read his severe expression, but he breathes in through his nose, calming himself, concealing emotion.
I recall every place I’ve been recently: Tashkent, Vienna, Tunis … I push my memory to the brink: a night in Beirut, two days in Rabat, a weekend in Helsinki—I can’t conjure a memory of Aksel.
“We met before I moved to Waterford?” I ask.
Aksel’s vivid eyes don’t leave mine. “Not exactly.” He props his arm on the back of my headrest.
“So, we haven’t met?”
Aksel’s face smolders underneath an impassive expression, as if he’s pleading with me to get it.
Aksel shakes his head. “You don’t remember?”
“No,” I say, “and I remember things—faces.”
He eyes me guardedly. “So do I,” he says quietly, “and I remember yours.”
“From where?” I practically shout.
His eyes pierce mine. It seems like a battle is raging within him, like a part of him wants to answer and another part of him doesn’t—I can’t tell which will win out.
He seems to be constructing a response.
“I saw you a little over eighteen months ago,” Aksel finally discloses, “at the US Embassy. In Berlin.”
CHAPTER 17
Berlin.
Everything around me spins. My heart beats like a bass drum; blood throbs in my ears.
Anxiety and dread pulse inside me, radiating through my veins, from my heart to my fingertips.
Foggy images shift into focus.
Closing my eyes, I fight to block them: Fluorescent light … people in suits … a microphone … a typewriter …
I desperately want to recall seeing Aksel: where he was and what he was doing, but remembering that day will sweep me up in a tsunami of memories I won’t survive.
“Wh-what were you doing there?” I stammer. “When did you see me? How?”
Earlier, curiosity eclipsed my intuition. Now, my instincts take over.
My world is simple: someone is either a threat, or not.
I must assess Aksel, immediately. He is left-handed. If I want to hurt him, I have to go for his right side. I examine the sunroof. Can I escape? I reach inside the tiny key pouch in the lining of my shorts and slide my forefinger around my Ladybug.
With my thumb, I discreetly unfold the blade from the handle and lock it into place.
Aksel notices my movements. He leans subtly away from me, distancing himself; is he assessing me too?
The crevasse between us is both widening and narrowing at once.
“Where did you see me?” I demand.
He eyes me hesitantly. “Outside the Bubble.”
The Bubble.
Such an innocent name. Soundproofed in every way, a bubble is the only unmonitored location inside an embassy for a secure conversation. It often does resemble a bubble; the walls are made up of rippling waves of partially transparent glass; the room usually contains only a table, several chairs, and, occasionally, a typewriter.
“I … I don’t understand,” I falter. “What were you doing there?”
The muscles across Aksel’s shoulders flex. “I was visiting relatives in Germany when I got an invitation to meet with an official at the embassy.” He drags a hand through his hair. “So, I went.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t see you—I would have remembered …” Somebody who looked like you, I refrain from saying.
“Look, maybe you didn’t see me,” he finally says. “But I saw you, and I never forgot.”
Now, I understand.
I didn’t recognize Aksel—I recognized Aksel recognizing me.
Aksel sits forward, agitated. His high cheekbones and furrowed brow don’t conceal his frustration.
“At first, you just looked familiar,” he explains, “but you said you had just moved here, so I brushed it off. Then at school, it was something about your profile, the fluorescent lights, I knew I’d seen you before. When you asked me in class where I was born”—he shrugs—“I remembered instantly.”
I