Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,83

shine. Life over death, or visa versa.

I’m going to finish what’s been started.

22

Paris

I close my eyes and inhale the delicate scent of fresh cut roses drifting upward from the blanket of red scattered across their graves.

As a wise-beyond-my-fourteen-years teenager, I understood life was complex. A long, drawn-out scientific equation, like those my chemistry teacher tended to torment us with. Solvable, so long as you don’t give up. And hey, I’m not the kind of girl to back away from a challenge, right? What no one prepared me for are the illogical blips that will derail you in a heartbeat, the emotional hiccups leading you down a path of anger, desperation, grief, heartbreak, hope. Where you struggle to manage, to pull yourself back, work your way out of an overwhelming maze of emotion and get back on track toward managing the main equation—that being love.

Mama knew it.

Pop knew it.

And as I sprinkle the petals of the last of my bouquet over the graves, and considering how deeply my parents loved each other, with all their faults, all their differences of opinion, all their blips and hiccups, the truth shatters me.

I loved like that, once. Yet hiccup after hiccup has led me astray, causing me to wonder if it’s possible to ever get back on track.

There’s no time like the present, if all goes according to plan.

Rising to my feet, I brush the last few clinging petals free of my palms, reminding myself how my melancholy is just another blip. Because I’m not here in Montparnasse Cemetery to simply pay respects to Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, my favorite French literary authors who happen to be lovers buried side by side in this cemetery. Or dredge up the painful memories of another cemetery, the one I buried my mother in.

No, I’m here to lure a Prick.

One of the main entrances to the catacombs is just beyond the grave. And with every plucked petal, I’ve been counting the seconds, hoping today will be the day something happens.

Thank you, Jaxson, for unknowingly giving me this brilliant idea.

Everything is in place. The less-popular location down by the River Seine where I’ll interrogate him about Novák’s whereabouts; the cat-and-mouse tactic I’ll use, the easiest yet most efficient way to get him to talk; my resolve to get this over with, get to Novák, terminate him, then bid au revoir to a city of light that’s cast nothing but darkness over me. Now all I need is a Prick to notice me.

I sigh. I could call Francis. I’m sure a whole army of men would descend upon this place, hell-bent on making me another permanent fixture buried within Montparnasse. But one man should do the trick.

For the next hour, I play tourist. Touring the cemetery, pacing up and down the sidewalk just in front, trying to be noticed. It’s only when a breeze kicks up out of nowhere and the hairs on my arms to stand at attention that I get the feeling I’m being watched.

Slowly and with utmost casualness, I scan the faces around me.

Until our eyes connect.

His narrow in recognition.

Mine drop to his stomach—which starts jiggling as he rushes toward me.

Big-Belly.

Bingo.

I scoop up my satchel tight against my shoulder, then jog across the cemetery grounds, weaving my way between tombstones and tourists. Running in a crazy jig-jog way, like I’ve overindulged on a bottle of Bordeaux, when what I’m hoping for is to dodge any bullets Big-Belly sends my way.

The sound of screaming tourists and cursing Frenchmen accompany me out onto the far sidewalk. Big-Belly . . . making friends.

I hit the brick sidewalk in a pathetically slow run. Keeping a manageable distance from my target yet close enough where he doesn’t lose sight of me. There’s too many people strolling about for him to fire—at least, I’m banking on the Prick having the tiniest bit of common sense not to open fire, without any additional common sense to spare.

Patience, I remind myself. Play it cool. Play the part. His mark. His victim. A nuisance he’ll take care of for his boss Novák.

I’m barely winded by the time I reach the stone stairwell leading down to the pedestrian walkway built along the bank of the Seine.

By the time I stop beneath the Petit Pont—a little bridge connecting Paris to the Île de la Cité, where Notre Dame cathedral is located—I’m feeling confident Big-Belly is ready to kill me.

I position myself beneath the bridge, fingers over the pistol at my side as I hunch over