Page 21 of Forgiving Paris
Ashley took the magazine from the seat pocket infront of her.MAKE THIS THE YEAR OF TRAVEL, the cover suggested. It was the same thing Landon had told her when they thought about their eighteenth anniversary.Let’s make this the year. Agree to the art show and travel to Paris. It’s time.Why in the world had she agreed?
She leaned closer to her husband. A Bible verse came to mind, one she had relied on often, especially in the years after Cole was born.Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
The words ran through her heart over and over and over again. And finally, Ashley felt her nerves settle. She had made this decision and she would stand by it. The time had come to make new memories in Paris, to take her rightful place among the artists whose work was displayed in the famous capital city. Landon would be at her side and the two of them would come home stronger because of their time together in France. She would walk in the grace of God and know once and for all that no one was chasing her, no one was trying to kill her. Yes, she would embrace this trip and all it involved.
Everything was going to be okay.
A CHILL HUNGin the Paris air that early July afternoon as Albert Arnaud crossed Rue de Turenne toward Rue Quincampoix. He held a steaming hot latte from Neighbours akilometer behind him. The Australian coffee shop was his favorite. The familiar white-and-blue cup gave him a good feeling about the day. About his future.
The mistakes he’d made before, he would not make again.
He’d given his word.
The latte was too hot to drink, so he stepped inside a men’s clothing shop. “Bonjour.” Albert smiled at the shopkeeper. She was young and pretty, easily half his age. “I need a brown leather belt.” He glanced at the nearest rack. “Would you have that?”
“Oui.” She was flirting with him. His shoes were the finest Italian leather, his designer sweater, cashmere, his beard well trimmed. Albert was under no delusions. The girl wasn’t interested in his looks. She motioned to him. “Follow me.”
Fifteen minutes later Albert had a new leather belt. He had refused the slip of paper with the girl’s phone number. He wasn’t interested. Besides, if she knew the type of person he was, she wouldn’t have offered.
Back on the street, he sipped his latte and took his time. His work happened in the dead of night. The days were his, time to do what he wanted. And usually that meant walking the streets of the Marais in the fourth arrondissement. He couldn’t get enough of it.
Sometimes it felt like he’d only been home days, and not a decade. Every season of his thirteen years in London, he had longed for home. But the move had saved his life. There hadn’t been any way around it. Not after themurder-for-hire went wrong. He had failed the greatest modern-day artist of all time.
A man Albert still loved. Albert hated himself for that.
Lonely as it was, his sojourn in London had bought him time. Paris police weren’t looking for him now and he didn’t frequent the Montmartre District anymore. Jean-Claude Pierre wasn’t there, so the thrill was gone. Instead, Albert was left with these two terrible truths: His previous boss was dead and he had died angry with Albert.
While in London, Albert had lived under a different name, but there was no need now. This time around, he was one of the most elusive trained killers Paris had ever known. He covered his tracks better than anyone. And people he interacted with—like the shopgirl and the barista—knew nothing of his line of work.
Another sip of his coffee and Albert savored the taste. Sometimes he got his morning latte from the closest Terres de Café, the Paris original with their high-grade beans from all over the world. But Albert loved how the Australians brewed a cup of coffee. And Neighbours was a more vibrant atmosphere.
Albert glanced over his shoulder, then up ahead and behind him. The way he did every minute or so. He was expert at knowing if he was being followed, if this was the day his secrets would be exposed and his life would come to an end.
At Rue Quincampoix, Albert turned right. No one was following him. Not today. He finished his latte and was passing the small art gallery on the right—Light of theSeine—when something caught his eye. He stopped and his heartbeat doubled. What was this? After all these years?
He walked the few steps to the gallery window. Posted to the inside of the glass was an advertisement for a show later that week. A few of the artist’s works dotted the large bulletin. But that’s not what stopped him. At the center of the ad was the face of the artist and her name.
Albert would’ve known her anywhere. In a crowded train station or at a café, walking a city street, or here… on an ad for a gallery show.
The face of an American artist:Ashley Baxter.
Back then, being hired to kill the girl was the biggest job Albert had ever been given, he and his buddy Guy Peters. The two had done odd jobs before that, drug dealing, gun smuggling. Whatever Jean-Claude Pierre had needed. But when the artist wanted someone harmed or threatened, he had always used a different pair of guys.
Until Ashley Baxter.
That was the secret no one had known about Jean-Claude Pierre. People saw him as a handsome, famous artist, but his family fortune had come from a long history of criminal activity. He let few people into his inner circle, and Albert had been one of those.
Albert thought about Jean-Claude constantly, even still. He would have died for the famous artist or spent a lifetime in prison. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the woman’s familiar face. He could hear Jean-Claude’surgent voice on the phone more than two decades ago. “She didn’t get rid of it.”
At first Albert hadn’t known what his boss meant. “Get rid of what?”
“The kid.” Jean-Claude had been seething. “I heard from the receptionist at the clinic. The American left before having the abortion.”
Albert hadn’t been sure what Jean-Claude wanted him to do. “You want me to take her back to the clinic?”
“Stop talking.” Jean-Claude had never sounded so angry. “You’re my A-team now. You and Guy. Don’t ask questions. Just… take care of her.”
Albert remembered feeling a slight thrill work its way through his body. Had he moved up Jean-Claude’s criminal chain? “Okay. So…?”
