Page 41 of Crossed
Worse than that is the sense of ownership that sparks through me like kerosene, lighting my veins on fire when I see her. When I so much asthinkof someone other than me touching her. It’s bothersome, and quite frankly, it makes me furious having to constantly balance on the tightrope between killing her quickly or keeping her alive so I can watch her every breath.
This obsession makes no sense, and I don’t like being so helpless to its pull.
But I refuse to be a victim any longer, which is why tonight, despite every fiber of my being aching to go and peer in her window, I don’t. Instead, I sit in my cozy little cottage and let my television drone on while I break apart a chocolate bar that’s the size of my forearm, preparing to drop it into the milk I have boiling on the gas stove.
It’s a treat, one that I don’t often indulge in, but tonight I’m feeling nostalgic, wanting to remind myself of where I come from and how far I still have to go, and hot chocolate brings back the memories of when I first got off the streets for good. When Father Moreau took me in and convinced me to come back by plying me with sugar cookies and warm drinks, not realizing I would have done it for a single night with a roof over my head.
My stomach grumbles, echoing off the large stone outside Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral. My face heats at the noise, but nobody turned my way, so I can only hope they didn’t notice.
Maybe my hunger isn’t as loud to everybody else as it is to me.
There are a lot of people here today on the Île de la Cité, traipsing around and taking photographs, but I don’t care about anybody other than the group of three American women who I’ve been tracking since they walked out of their ritzy hotel forty- five minutes ago. They don shawls around their shoulders, whispering about how archaic it is to have to cover their skin if they want to see inside, and their giggles ring off the high arches and intricate Gothic carved structures as though it’s appropriate to be so disrespectful in a place so full of beauty.
I move slowly behind them, keeping enough distance that I disappear into the scenery, because the last thing a pickpocket wants is to stand apart from the crowd. And I learned to blend in long before I ran away from the orphanage ten years ago.
Besides, blending in is easy enough to do here. Paris is teeming with tourism, full of people who are too busy looking up to see the hand sliding in their pockets and sneaking out their wallets.
As the group of women head closer to the door, I pick up my pace, cutting across the concrete- lined bushes and the open square to deliberately stand in their way right when they reach the entry to the church.
The short brunette slams into me, and I jerk back, gripping her around the waist to catch her.
Her purse sways at her side.
“Je suis désolé, belle. Est- ce que tu vas bien?”
The girl’s eyes widen, and she leans in closer. “What?”
I offer her my most devastating smile. I’ve been told that when I can keep myself at least moderately bathed and my anger in check, I have a certain type of charm. It usually seems to work in my favor when trying to woo a pretty girl, but I can’t be sure if it’s my face or my accent that does the trick here.
Tourists are terribly predictable.
My hand holds her side tightly, squeezing in comfort, but my other one has already slipped into the side of her bag and grabbed her wallet, moving it from her purse into my pocket. My heart slams against my rib cage, adrenaline flooding through my system like a drug, and I walk away, smiling and apologizing as I slink backward until I reach the door.
Then I’m spinning around and speeding off, wanting to leave the scene before she realizes what I took.
Hopefully, there’s cash in here. Tourists usually carry some around, but cards, while not impossible, are more difficult.
“Hey!” she yells behind me.
Merde.
I break into a sprint, pushing two bystanders out of the way as I cut across the open courtyard, garnering attention from the people standing by. A flock of pigeons is huddled by a lamppost, and I run straight for them, hoping the distraction of them flying and flapping will help me get away.
And I almost do. Get away with it, I mean.
But then a man steps in front of me, gripping my arm tightly and swinging me around, my heart pounding in my ears and my stomach tightening around the emptiness.
Disappointment rattles in my hollow bones as I look up at my captor, realizing Archbishop Moreau has me in his hold.
“Suivez- moi,” he says simply, telling me to follow him.
I expect him to take me back to the cathedral itself, but instead he walks to a small patisserie and sits us down at the front corner table, Notre-Dame towering over everything in the distance.
The smell of rich chocolate and freshly ground coffee fills the air, and my stomach cramps.
I’ve known of Archbishop Moreau—it’s almost impossible not to if you live in the area— but I never imagined he would seem so…normal. Although beyond scouting for people to steal from, I’ve never given much thought to the church in general, if I’m honest. Religion brings back memories of Sister Agnes. Of a time I try to forget.
He waves over one of the baristas and orders two sweet crepes and cups of hot chocolate, choosing to let us both sit in silence until the young man comes back with our order.
