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Jonathan

Paris was made for the night. During the day it is washed out, almost shy, embarrassed by its own gaudiness. But at night it is confident, full of shadows and secrets, piss-soaked cobblestones, uneven footing and spilled red wine, and someone, somewhere, is always playing the saddest song you have ever heard.

Eva and I are walking to our hotel. Mas gave her scrubs to wear. He offered to drive us to the hotel, but we both wanted the walk. We wanted to be in the world again.

She catches me up on everything that happened with her and her handler and the network. They want her dead because she did not kill me. I cannot blame her for wanting to kill me to live.

I can tell she is shaken. I am, too. I tried to kill her. If it were not for her quick thinking, she would be dead.

“I truly am sorry,” I say again.

“Will you please stop apologizing?” she says.

“I just want you to know that—”

“Please.” She puts a hand up. “It’s irritating. You tried to kill me. I tried to kill you—”

“To save yourself.”

She cocks her head. “I’m not talking about tonight. I tried to shoot you in the head. And stab you in the heart. Two days ago.” She makes a face. “It’s kind of concerning that it’s so easy for you to forget.”

She is right. She did try to kill me. I feel better.

I lace my fingers in her good hand. Her skin is a few degrees colder than before. It will take days for her body to warm up again. Bleeding out will do that to a person.

She smells like blood. Not just hers but someone else’s. Significant blood transfusions, like the one she just had, change the way a person smells. Forever.

It scares me how close she was to death. How close I brought her to it. She was right. I am not afraid of getting hurt. I am afraid of hurting her.

I feel this need to protect her from me. I do not know how to be the killer and the lover, but I am going to try. I am going to try for her.

We turn down a dark alley. Neither of us is prepared. Neither of us sees them coming. That is the dangerous thing about falling in love.