Page 79 of Heathens
The horror at realizing we each had our passports on us that fateful night, in case we got carded.
The helplessness when they dragged us into the warehouse, taped our mouths shut—every single one of us—and destroyed our phones. They rummaged through our bags, taking cash and burning passports. Evelyn was here on a student visa. She was taking two classes a week at the Sorbonne. I remember the bad men speaking to me in French—they thought I was French-born, because of my passport.
I remember the desperation at the police station that night.
The paperwork I had to file to get a new passport.
Evelyn never did get a new passport. She was still on the missing person’s list, and she never filed for a new one. I was first on the list to be notified. Swallowing and moving forward in the line, I try not to think about what that means. Either they got her a new one. A new name. Or they never bothered, trapping her here. Trapping her with them. It was a common tactic, one I’d learned about when I spent month after month researching human trafficking for clues into their tactics. Anything to help me get to her.
The customs agent greets me in French, and luckily I know more now than I did that night two and a half years ago. He asks me if I’m here for business or pleasure. I respond in French.
“For pleasure,” I purr, and he smiles, stamping my passport.
“Your hair is different,” he adds, tapping my picture with a pen.
I shrug nonchalantly. “I needed a change.”
Once I'm through, I walk out of the station and enter the taxi line. The journey to the hotel is quick—we weave through the dense traffic, and I study the shiny storefronts, the clean pavement. Monte Carlo is the opposite of Paris in every way. Light, clean, new. Designer shops line the streets, and people stroll down aimlessly, their arms full of bags. Where Paris is old, moody—Monte Carlo is avant-garde and bright. Everything is white. It's blinding. It's the Vegas of Europe.
The hotel is much the same. I check in and learn the room is already paid for.Of course. A bellboy takes my bag and leads me up to the top floor, opening a door that leads to a small but luxurious room. My eyes sweep over the red damask curtains, the dark, cherry wood furniture. Gold accents sit on the desk in the form of a lamp, a telephone, the light switches, a chandelier. My feet pad over thick, black and white striped carpet. I crane my neck and ogle the shiny bathroom—white marble, gold fixtures. After the bellboy leaves, I freshen up and change into a summer dress, suddenly in need of a large drink. I know Salem said he'd be up soon, but I shoot him a quick text letting him know I'll be at the bar. I'm too antsy to sit around. I take a picture from the balcony with my phone, the yachts lining the bay, but the sun is too bright, and the picture is terrible.
It smells like wealth here.
I secure my blonde wig and take the elevator down, not even bothering to put my phone in my purse. In fact, I haven't let it out of my sight since we left Paris. I check for the sixtieth time that the volume is on loud and that I have service.
It is, and I do.
The bar is just as ornate as the rooms. Glass shelves for the liquor, gold benches, an opulent dome above us that lets in the bright light.
The light is so different here, even though Monte Carlo and Paris aren’tthatfar apart. But every city has its own light, its own vein of color, and Monaco’s is crisp—sparkling, luminous, flashing.
Just then, I hear a familiar laugh. Swallowing and trying to remain inconspicuous, I glance over my shoulder to see Salem sitting with Auguste and two other men in cassocks. A meeting of priests. I grind my teeth. A meeting of men who wish to bring harm upon innocent people. Salem catches my eye and shakes his head once.
Don’t even think about it.
He laughs broadly at something Auguste says, and then his eyes flash to mine again.
I’ve got this under control.
Giving him a nod of my own, I order a dirty martini with extra olives, sipping it slowly. Just as I swallow the last bit of my third olive, trying my hardest to remain calm, to remain still, I hear two ringtones.
My phone beeps in front of me, Benedict's name flashing on the screen.
And, as I turn around—to my horror—Auguste excuses himself from the group, clutching his ringing phone.
I swipe the answer bar at the same time Auguste does. I don’t say anything as I hold the phone to my ear, only watching Auguste slink out of the bar, whispering angry, hushed words into his microphone.
“I’ve got her,” Benedict says. Smiling, I look to where Auguste is pacing by the bathrooms, his brows furrowed and his face red with anger.
“Good,” I answer. “That’s good.”
You Won
Salem
Present
Is it possible for your heart to stop beating? For your lungs to stop breathing? For a second, as I watch Lily’s face drain of color, seeming to leech everything into Auguste’s hot-tempered face several feet away, I swear my heart ceases to pump, my lungs failing to take in any oxygen at all. It’s dizzying—and all the while, I have to keep up the exhausting façade. Pulling myself together with as much strength as I can muster, I continue to speak to Father Castilian and Father Marquesa as if the two people I’ve been watching all day didn’t just both get life-altering news—as if everything is still okay.
