Page 11

11

Lena

L ena flexed her ankle carefully, wincing at the tight pull of the healing tendons. Not quite pain, but not comfortable either. Progress, according to her physical therapist. More like frustration .

At least the crutches were gone. That was something.

She exhaled. Three weeks. Three weeks of slow, careful steps. Of crutches, of ice packs, of listening to her body when half the time she had no idea what it was trying to tell her.

It wasn’t all bad. The swelling was down. The pain had mostly faded, to the point where it was hard to remember how much it’d hurt at first. She’d regained a lot of her range of motion and balance. She was nowhere near a hundred percent, but her physical therapist thought soon she’d be able to take off the brace in her day-to-day, and only wear it during so-called “high-risk” activities. But, until then, she was stuck with it, strapped tightly around her ankle as both protection and limitation.

At least she wasn’t stuck inside the house anymore.

She’d watched a lot of movies over the last weeks. Some of them with her father, who was making an effort to be more present—not necessarily at convenient times, but more present nevertheless. True to his word, he’d watched Compartment No. 6 with her, and even made them both popcorn. In exchange, she’d watched some action films, too, of the kind he preferred, full of explosions and predictable dialogue.

A flicker of movement caught her attention, and she shifted to avoid a small dog on an absurdly long leash. The sudden motion sent a sharp twinge through her ankle. Lena sighed, sucked in a breath, and slowed. She wanted to be back to normal. She wanted to move without thinking about moving.

She wanted?—

She rubbed at her temple.

She wanted lots of things.

Most of all, she wanted Tristan to stop haunting her thoughts.

Three weeks, and she still hadn’t been able to shake him from her mind.

She’d ignored his multiple calls and, though she hadn’t been able to stop herself from reading his texts, she’d kept her responses short, polite and impersonal. She didn’t want to ghost him—he didn’t deserve that—but she also didn’t want to encourage his attentions. Not when she’d already decided not to see him again. This thing between them, whatever it was, was already causing her pain. Letting him get closer would only make it worse.

And yet, the temptation remained. Every time her phone pinged, she wondered if it was him. Even worse, a part of her hoped it was him. She had to keep reminding herself that Tristan was like her father—a man who breathed and lived his job. A man who wouldn’t put anything else ahead of his job. He was most emphatically not the kind of man she needed in her life.

Except … her body disagreed.

A part of her, the reckless part, whispered that she could just use him. That they might use each other. Just once. Just to take the edge off. God knows she needed some release, particularly now. She could get herself off, of course. She had been doing that. Except now, every time she closed her eyes, it was Tristan’s face she saw. Tristan’s mouth on hers, kissing her like he needed her as much as she needed him. Tristan’s hands on her body. His fingers pinching her nipples, slipping inside her, stroking her, making her quiver. And when she came, it was with his name on her lips.

That wasn’t healthy. She blew out a slow breath, shaking the thought from her head.

She turned on Rue la Mollard, staring at the shop window of one of the local pharmacies, which was decked out in spiders, cobwebs and … plastic rats? The effect was somewhere between cute and obscene. The whole town seemed to have gone crazy for Halloween. This was new. This didn’t use to happen when she was a child.

Something fell on the bridge of her nose. A snow flake. The first snowflake of the year. She looked up at the sky, trying to catch another one. Her mother had always made a big deal of this day when she was growing up—hot chocolate, candles, blankets on the couch. She missed her mother. She wanted so badly to call her and tell her … everything.

She was so distracted she walked past the café without realizing, and had to circle back. Shuffle back . Her ankle was starting to hurt. Maybe she’d overdone it today.

She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to meet André. He was a reporter, and she didn’t like the thought of being in the spotlight. She also didn’t have that much to say about the topic beyond what was already public knowledge. She hadn’t even seen the full skeleton, only the parts that had been sticking out of the rock. But she and André had gone to school together and, when he’d called, it had seemed easier to meet with him than to make up some excuse.

He was already sitting at a small table by the window. He looked the same as he always had, except for his red hair, which was a little thinner, and the receding hairline creeping in where there hadn’t been one five years ago.

“Lena,” he said, standing up quickly, reaching for her hand. His palm was damp, clammy, and Lena undid the contact as quickly as she could, only just refraining from wiping her hand on the leg of her jeans. He was only a few inches taller than her, which of course made her think of another, much taller man. No. She wasn’t going to think of Tristan now.

She forced a smile, sitting down on the empty chair across from him. “André. How have you been?”

“Good, good. Tell me, what can I get you?

“Green tea, please.” That’s what she needed. Something warm. Something to detox her from all things Tristan.

André walked up to the counter and returned a minute later with a steaming mug.

“Thanks,” she said, curling her fingers around it.

He leaned in, his expression eager. “Listen. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I’m writing an article, and I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about the skeleton.”

“I’m not sure I know any more than you,” she admitted. The media had devoured the story. For weeks, local newspapers—and even some international ones—had been full of the story. You’d think it was the most exciting thing to happen in Chamonix in the last seventy-five years.

“But you were there when the body was discovered.”

Lena nodded. “I was. But it was dark. I was injured, and more focused on not freezing to death.”

André chuckled, but his sharp, eager gaze told her he wasn’t about to let her off that easily. “Still, you saw it firsthand. That’s something.”

Lena blew lightly over her tea before taking a cautious sip. The warmth seeped into her, grounding her. “I saw part of it. Part of the skull. A few bones and some fabric that looked like a jacket. The forensic team are the ones who did the real work, and I wasn’t there for that.”

“Sure, but you were the first civilian to witness it.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What was that like?”

She tilted her head. “Scary. Sad. A bit like stepping into somebody else’s story.” Because there was a chance that person didn’t get trapped there by accident. They might never learn what had happened. But he’d been there for seventy-five years. A lifetime .

A shiver ran through her at the thought. Lena took another sip of tea, willing the cold away.

André nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to the chill creeping up her spine. “The whole town is buzzing with speculation. You wouldn’t believe some of the theories I’ve heard.”

She huffed out a dry laugh. “Try me.”

“Well, the leading one is that it was a fugitive. A criminal on the run who got lost in the mountains.”

“Possible,” she admitted. She could make up stories like the best of them. But she’d seen the space where the body had been. “But I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Then there’s the idea that it’s a soldier. Maybe even a German soldier who deserted during the war.”

That theory made her stomach tighten slightly. It wasn’t impossible. The war had left its ghosts in these mountains.

André tapped his fingers against his mug. “Then there’s the romantic theory—star-crossed lovers. A man who vanished trying to reach someone he loved.”

Lena arched a brow. “That one sounds a little dramatic.”

“I guess we’ll never know what happened. But my boss has asked me to write an article about it. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something else … something nobody else knows,” he said, his eyes shining.

Her gaze drifted out the window. Snowflakes were falling in earnest now, swirling in the wind, settling on rooftops and coats and the cobbled streets.

“I can’t think of anything,” she said. Then, at his forlorn expression, added, “but I did take a few photographs.”

“Photographs?” André’s tongue darted over his lips.

She quickly put up a hand. “The police has them. They’re part of the ongoing investigation. I’m sorry. I can’t let you have a copy, or publish them.” He looked so crestfallen, she didn’t want to leave him like this. “But I could show you,” she added.

His enthusiasm returned in an instant. “Really?”

“Yes.” She pulled out her laptop and opened the files up. She’d cleaned up the images as best she could. They weren’t her best work, but if you considered the shape she’d been in, her fingers half-frozen, her ankle throbbing, they weren’t that bad, either. In one of them, one could clearly see the remains of the brown leather jacket the man had been wearing. In another, her camera had zoomed in on one arm bone, where a watch now hung limply from skeletal wrist bones. The goriest one of all showed the side of the man’s skull, where some strands of hair still remained attached.

André traced her screen with his fingertips, as if he could climb into the photographs. “Amazing. This—this is history, Lena.”

Lena smiled. History might be taking things too far, but it was flattering.

“Thank you so much for letting me see these. They’re really going to help inspire my article.” He looked down at his watch. “I’ve already taken too much of your time. But if you remember anything else, even the smallest thing, I’d love to hear it.”

She nodded, more out of politeness than agreement. “Sure. I’ll let you know.”

The conversation shifted after that—a few minutes of casual talk, old school memories, updates on mutual acquaintances—but Lena’s mind remained elsewhere. And outside, the snow kept falling.