Page 71 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

TWO

Six weeks later

I’ve yet to tell anyone of the nightmares.

Of the constant feeling I’m being followed, or the shadows trying to trick me into believing they’re the enemy.

I know it’s all in my head, but that does little to erase the newly seeded fear.

I brace my hands on the bathroom sink and stare into the mirror at my pale complexion.

I’ve gone to all the required therapy sessions and passed all the mental evaluations in order to be back at work full-time.

I’ve been reminded how anxiety and panic, when used correctly, can be an asset.

I just have to find a way to leverage that fear to my advantage.

To use it to help sharpen my focus and push me beyond my comfort zone, which will in turn make me a better officer.

But in the middle of the night, when I’m alone and fighting the panic, all I can see is the burned imprint on my mind of the last time I saw William.

A part of me has considered walking away from my post. To somehow find something normal to do with my skill set.

But every time the thought crosses my mind, I know I will never do that.

Not yet anyway. For now, I simply can’t let anyone know how much getting shot and losing William has affected me.

I have to keep reminding myself that Polina got away safely that day, and that the information we received from her had been vital.

The bottom line is that she’s not my only asset, and I’m in way too deep to simply walk away.

So instead of running, I spend ten-plus hours a day sitting in a small office going through intel and focusing on the distraction of writing up reports, prepping for meetings, and translating documents. I remind myself that my work is important—I’m a small piece of a larger puzzle.

What no one knew—and still doesn’t know—is that the evening before the ambush on Pont Neuf, William asked me to marry him, and I said yes.

We knew of other couples working for the CIA who had been able to be posted together, so this next step in our relationship seemed like the perfect solution.

It was a chance to serve our country together as a team.

Until a simple meet with an asset had gone south and everything changed.

Six weeks have passed with no sign of William.

Witnesses have confirmed that four men came after us, there was a fight, and that one of them pushed him off the bridge.

While it seems impossible, no body has been found, any follow-up leads have run cold, and the identities of the men are still unknown.

I glance away from the mirror and pull up the bottom of my shirt to see where the bullet skimmed my side.

It might be almost completely healed, but the scar it left will always be a reminder of what happened that day.

Of what I lost personally, and of the guilt I haven’t been able to shake over leaving William to deal with four armed men alone.

I’ve been assured over and over that I did the right thing.

That my decision to protect Polina was the right one.

But at what cost? Was sacrificing the man I loved really worth it?

No matter how many times I rerun the scenario through my head, it always comes out the same, or even worse, with me losing Polina as well as William. No. Even I have to admit that as painful as the consequences are from that day, I made the right choice.

I let go of my shirt and let it drop back into place covering the scar, then force a smile before I unlock the bathroom door and step into the hallway.

Lizzie is standing there.

“There you are.” She pauses. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” I say, forcing a grin. “It’s just been a long day. I’m about to head home.”

She follows me down the narrow hallway toward my office. “A few of us are planning to grab a bite to eat. Would you like to join us?”

I glance at my watch. “I think I’m going to head home. It’s been a long day.”

I note her frown, and I know it’s not the answer I should have given her. We’re a team, and I’ve made little effort to act like it over the last few weeks.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she presses.

“Of course,” I say, trying to make up for dismissing yet another invite. “And I do appreciate it. Maybe this weekend.”

While I have the option to drive to my apartment building, most days I prefer to walk.

I stroll down the sidewalk a few minutes later, avoiding eye contact like a typical Parisian, content to mind my own business.

Lost in my own thoughts. I pass a café and am tempted to step inside and order something instead of eating at home, but I know I’m only trying to delay the inevitable.

A dreaded evening alone in my apartment, which is ironic considering I just declined another invitation to be social.

A group of kids talking loudly walk past, pulling me out of my thoughts.

So much for paying attention. I’m typically careful to take different routes going home as well as different times, all in order to protect my cover.

Not that I’m expecting a problem, but after William’s disappearance, I’ve started taking extra precautions.

I even dyed my hair a couple shades darker and have taken to wearing glasses when I’m out.

Always blending in.

Never standing out.

But there is a legitimate concern to my fears.

I’d been able to give detailed descriptions to the authorities of the four men who attacked William.

None of them have been identified, but I know they saw me.

The assumption is that Polina was the target—a meet with an asset gone wrong—and with no viable leads, we may never find them.

I’ve spent hours going through interview transcripts and information she gave us over the past six months.

All the files regarding her husband and the work he was involved in, in an attempt to find a connection to the men.

So far I still have nothing, and while it’s officially still a matter for the local police, William’s disappearance no longer seems like a priority for anyone.

I decide to try to shake my mood by walking a few more blocks and enjoy the sun before the temperature drops further with nightfall, hoping the fresh air will help clear my mind. I’m almost back to my apartment building when I see one of my neighbors sitting on a bench.

“Mr. Basile,” I say in French, smiling at the older man. “How are you?”

He’s holding a bouquet of tulips wrapped in paper. He smiles up at me and then pats the empty space next to him.

“I’m doing well,” he says. “And even better after running into you.”

“I haven’t seen you for a while,” I say, sitting down next to him, then nod at the flowers. “Is this a special occasion?”

“It is, actually. Today is Elise’s birthday,” he says. “She would have been eighty-three, but to me she is still just as young and as beautiful as the day I first met her.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They were her favorite.” He sets the flowers in his lap, takes a moment to pull out a photo from his wallet, then hands it to me. “Have I shown you this?”

The photograph of a young woman is weathered and frayed at the corners.

“I’ve seen photos of her in your apartment, but not this one.”

He’s spoken of Elise many times. The high school sweetheart he’d married, then lost to a brain tumor almost two decades ago.

“I was sorting out a cabinet drawer and found some photos.” He pulls out a second photograph, just as weathered as the first. “This is Elise with our son. He was. . . I don’t know. . .seven or eight at the time. You’ve met him.”

“Christopher.” I nod. “Have you heard from him?”

“He’s a good man, but his mother’s birthday isn’t exactly marked on his calendar. That’s for old sentimental fools like me.”

“You’re no fool,” I say, an idea forming in my mind. “Would you like to do something special? Maybe go out to dinner?”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’ve had an early dinner, and I think I’ll just put these flowers in a vase and go to bed early.”

“How about coffee and dessert then?” I ask. “Does that tempt you?”

He pulls out a tulip from the bouquet and hands it to me. “You’re tired. I can see it in your eyes. And besides, you don’t need to entertain an old man. Why don’t you walk me to my apartment and tell me how your job is going?”

I note the change in subject, but decide to drop the invitation. Mr. Basile—and everyone else I know—believes I work as a translator for international businesses as well as a handful of diplomats, which explains my access to the US Embassy.

“I can definitely do that,” I say, helping him up.

“How is your job going?” he asks, taking my arm.

“I certainly can’t complain. Look what I get to wake up to every day.”

He laughs. “A woman who appreciates my city. I like that about you. You told me your mother was French?”

“Russian actually. It was my father’s parents who were from Marseille.”

“Of course. My memory continues to fail me. But what I do know is that your accent is almost flawless, which is most impressive for an American.”

“Merci,” I say, grinning at the compliment.

“So many Americans come here attempting to speak French. Their bad accents make my ears hurt.” He stops for a moment on the sidewalk to let a family pass. “Now all you need is a soul mate. A relationship like I had with Elise.”

“Tell me more about her,” I say.

I catch his smile at the request. He’s shared snippets of their life with me over the few months I’ve known him, but I always enjoy his stories and descriptions of life from decades ago.

“She loved red lipstick and always wore a silk scarf when she went out,” he says as we continue to walk. “At home, she loved dancing barefoot in the kitchen while listening to Charles Aznavour and Francoise Hardy.”

“I can picture her doing that.”