Fool's Gold: A Kisses and Crimes Novel (6 page)

Contrary to what I’ve told Bishop… I’m
not
looking to make a scene. I wouldn’t even know what to tell police.

Would it be like:

“Hi, officer, my name is Daniela Bishop…
I think
. And this gorgeous, secretive, semi-psychopath who just might be my husband is trying to lock me inside of our house”?

Yeah, right. I’d be accused of being crazier than even Bishop is.

I go through everything, even convincing myself that the cabinets hold secret passageways. I bang on wood panels. I knock on glass panes. My hands are practically raw by the time I sit down, collapsing, in the middle of the living room floor two hours later.

Twilight is approaching. I am
exhausted
… and honestly ready to give the
fuck
up.

But then I notice something as I sit there, staring at the kitchen walls…

I notice something shiny. Something different, something…
odd
.

The nails in the frame of the window above the kitchen sink.

I hadn’t noticed them at the time. All I could think about were my questions for Bishop… and Bishop’s
hands
and Bishop’s
forearms
and Bishop’s…

Teeth.

Oh my God.

I stand up, walking calmly over towards the windowsill where I watched Bishop work just a few short hours ago.

I run my fingers along the head of each newly hammered nail, placing my hand above the one that stands out most. The last one I’d seen between Bishop’s teeth.

It’s golden, where the others are silver—loose, where the others feel tight. I push on it with one reddened finger and realize that the odd little nail hasn’t been hammered in at all.

It’s been strategically
placed
at the window jamb.

It’s as clear as day to me now: The hole in the frame was there before the nail ever went in.

That’s why it was so easy for Bishop to pound in.

My heart beating hard, my hands itching, I dig my fingernails into the wood around the nail, pulling.

A twist to the right, a yank to the left, and the nail is out.

And so is the frame.

The top right of the window frame swings downward, exposing the window’s glass, and with one tiny push, the swinging casement window swivels outward, letting in a breeze that feels like a sigh of relief.

Surprisingly cool, crystal clear air fills my lungs and I reach for the window, swinging it further so that the entire window lies open, baring me to the cobble-stoned street.

I brace my hands on the kitchen counter, preparing to lift a leg to climb out… but nerves and adrenaline—thick and coursing through my constricted veins—drag me back down, placing me on my feet where I land harshly, my fingers shaking, my legs feeling weak at the knees.

Because I am scared. I am scared
shitless
.

Because I don’t know what’s out there, I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know
who
I am, so if anyone were to ask, I wouldn’t know just what to tell them.

And what if Bishop catches me…?

The thought of my supposed husband staring at me with those earthy-green eyes—half-hazelnut,
half-flame
—puts an extra chill down my spine, making me shiver, making the cool breeze from outside feel even cooler.

But I have no choice.

I take a deep breath… and launch myself onto the kitchen counter, crouching so that I can crawl up and into the opened window where I perch for no more than a few seconds.

And then I jump.

I jump down onto the street, landing awkwardly on the soles of my sandals.

Tendrils swept, skirt up, I push at flying strands of hair and fabric, reaching up to close the window with one free hand as the other works tirelessly to neaten my appearance.

I probably look like an escaped convict.

I certainly feel like one.

With the window closed and the sounds of the markets one street over, I straighten my posture, faking a confidence that I don’t even feel.

A stroll turns into a power-walk. A power-walk turns into a trot, and before I know it, I am running, sprinting towards the end of the block where I can see people—
actual fucking people
—intermittently crossing the street.

I run to them.

For help…? For familiarity? For
shits and giggles
? I don’t know…

I just do.

And when I finally reach the end of the row, passing the final house on the corner of Bishop’s block, the noises from the markets turn deafening.

What was a simple hum to me while indoors is like a
roar
up close and personal.

I haven’t just walked into the market…

I’ve stumbled into last night’s nightmare.

DANI

The tiny pencil in my hand almost snaps in half.

I write the note carefully, marveling at how neat my own handwriting is despite how
incredibly
drunk I’m getting. I try to return the small utensil to Amelie, the pretty, brown-haired waitress who’s given it to me.

But like everything else she’s given me in the last fifty-five minutes, she won’t take it back. She smiles as I attempt to slide it back in her hand across the table in this quaint French cafe.

She speaks to me in a delicately beautiful French accent.

“Amelie, I can’t take another thing from you,” I almost slur.

“Actually… yes, you can.” Her voice reminds me of butterfly wings, floating to land on top of a pretty rose.

Pretty. Soft. Delicate.

Just like her face.

Wait.
Did I just compare a complete stranger to…
butterfly
wings? Do I even really
remember
what the fuck butterfly wings look like?

I swirl the glass of ale that Amelie’s just served me, trying to conjure up colors of different butterfly wings.

And unlike almost everything else in my life that I try to remember, I see them in great detail.

And at least I remember
this
.
Being drunk
.

Didn’t take too long for the memory of
that
to hit me once the first glass of cider hit my greedy lips.

Didn’t take too long to
also
realize that I seem to be completely fluent in French…

No wonder I understood the brief exchange between the nurse and doctor who came to examine me.

Go figure.

The second I stumbled out of the street and into the charming little cafe, la Petite Monde, her tiny talkative voice welcoming me in had almost knocked me back off of my feet as I realized that I could understand
everything
the little French woman was saying.

Everything
.

My God, Dani was just full of all
types
of little surprises, wasn’t she?

This Dani girl liked the taste of cider ale, had panic attacks in large groups of people, and apparently couldn’t hold her liquor for shit.

Fantastic.

Luckily, she had stumbled upon Amelie who had obliged her with a thoroughly confusing account of the little town Annecy in which she was unknowingly staying.

A couple of free glasses of beer (since Dani snuck out without her wallet), a small notepad and a pencil made forgetful Dani feel right at home.

It was shaping up to be an eventful evening.

And I didn’t even know if Bishop had made it back home yet…

Home
. As if I even knew what that meant.

I swear… I can’t tell if I’m beginning to like this Dani girl more or less at this point.

Suddenly, Amelie plops another bottle of ale on my table; the heavy sound of glass on wood snaps me out of my own drunken thoughts.

Thank God.

Amelie leans in closer.

“Y’know…” she says, in English. “I cannot give you ‘nother unless you eat something first. You are going to be on floor if you do not put food in stomach.”

I sip on the ale, ignoring her suggestion, pouring too much ale in my glass.

“You don’t have to speak in English, Ame. You should know by now that I can understand you perfectly well in French.”

Amelie smiles.

“I like speaking in English. Gives me chance to practice. I watch my TV,” she points to a large flat screen in the corner “with English subtitles. And if you think you not answer to what I said is going to help me not stuffing bread down your mouth, then you do not know me very well, Daniela.”

I hold my hand out, gripping the empty glass in the other.

“Lay it on me, sister.”

Amelie disappears from a door behind the bar and reappears quickly. She places a tiny plate with a piece of French bread and a slice of Brie right before my suddenly ravenous lips.

I accept the plate with a “Merci’” and she starts talking before I can manage my first swallow.

“Tell me why I find you look like you did? Whiter than ghost?”

I laugh, nearly choking on my piece of Brie.

“You sure you want to hear this, Amelie?”

“Yes. Will be more entertaining than boring news and subtitles. Too much talk of these Americans. I only want to hear from
you
, American girl.”

I tap the edge of my glass, and Amelie fills it.

“Oh my God, where do I start?”

I lean in closer.

“Well, it all started with a man—a man with tattoos and dark hair and amazing eyes. The
worst
kind of man…”

***

I stumble out of la Petite Monde cafe and into the open, crowded streets of Annecy much in the same way I blundered in.

Except this time, I’m drunker, more satiated and a hell of a lot more relaxed now that I’ve made a new friend.

I try not to let my
little
problems sink in…

Like the fact that it’s Bastille Day in France and there’s a crowd deep enough to swim in. Or that I had a scary flashback of last night’s nightmare when I wound up inadvertently running straight into a parade for the infamous
La Fete Nationale
as
I escaped from Bishop’s house.

You know, little problems like those.

I squeeze through the heavily lined streets with a renewed sense of self.

I smile at a woman passing. She smiles back. And before I know it, I am following the crowd, lining up to pass through avenues where pastel-colored buildings reach upwards to bleed into a pastel-colored dusk sky.

The evening is so much darker than it was just two hours ago, and still the gathering is livelier than ever.

Tipsy from the ale and my new feeling of freedom apart from Bishop and that caged house, I let the character of the cottages and crowd of the little French town sweep me away, and before I know it, I am throwing my hands in the air, soaking in the music and air of festivity that fills the tiny grey-cemented streets.

Time has no meaning, and I exhaust myself amidst the celebration, my white cami soaked through, my hair wet from sweat that trickles along my hairline and shoulders.

I feel fantastic. I feel free. I feel
alive
.

I reach my fingers towards the sky, swinging my hips to the joyous beat of a nearby ragtag band.

And then the explosion strikes, cracking my sense of calm along its barely-stitched seams.

I scream… and the night sky explodes into a million fragments, raining blue, green and gold sparks everywhere.

The crowd cheers, their arms up in praise as the fireworks begin, halting each activity on the street and replacing it with a relentless tempo that drums against the night sky.

Ah, now the
real
party has begun.

But I want no part of it.

The firework explosions don’t just put my nerves on edge; they
obliterate
them… and I find myself running in the opposite direction, attempting to escape the unending noise that only elicits more shouts and praise from the mass of people that I was all too happy to join just a second ago.

I want nothing to do with them now.

I can’t
… because each explosion is another imaginary gunshot, and each time a firework booms, I am
rocked
by another hallucination—another vision of my “hunters” amidst the hosts of celebrators.

They seem to have reached right into my reality.

Everywhere I turn, it feels like they are right on my heels… until I am running so fast that I am plowing into the party-goers, my body slamming into the edges of theirs as I try desperately to escape.

I can sense their presence. I can hear their heavy breaths.

And so I run.

I run
forever
.

Until the crowd is no more. Until the loud sounds of the fireworks have faded.

I run until I simply
cannot
run anymore.

I collapse on a side street, sucking in harsh breaths as I try to calm my beating heart, squeezing my eyes shut as the lights from nearby bungalows blind my tearing eyes.

I don’t know how long I stay there.

Perched against a building, my feet sore and nearly bruised, I place my head in my hands, feeling hopeless, wanting to understand—wanting to
remember
.

I rub the fresh scar above my ear, thinking about the shot that could have taken my life.

What happened to me? Why
did this happen to me? And when the fuck will my mind stop playing tricks on me?

I close my hand into a clenched fist, needing to rage.

The only thing that stops me is the man on the other end of the alley.

“Eille!” he says to me in French.
Hey!

He walks forward, the intermittent light on the street never illuminating his face.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is gruff; French is broken. He walks towards me with the gait of a police officer… but with a patience that seems half as thin.

Aw, shit
. He must mistake me for a beggar.

I turn to him weakly as I sit on the street. I respond in his native tongue, surprising myself yet again.

“I am not a beggar, I promise. I’m just… tired from running. There’s no problem, sir.”

He keeps walking, his silhouette still sheathed in shadow.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

I raise a feeble hand.

“I know, sir. I know…”

“You can’t be here…”

“Just a second, sir. Just to catch my breath…”

And within seconds, I catch my breath, alright…

The man, never stopping, pushes aside his jacket at his hip, and I practically choke on the next one.

I don’t know much about law enforcement…
but I know a gun when I see one…

I leap to my feet, startled. And as the man continues charging in my direction, I start to run again, my feet slapping against a badly paved street in sandals that are now nearly stripped bare.

“Arrête!” he yells from behind me.
Stop!
But I keep running.

I take strides I didn’t know I had in me—breaths I thought were tapped out. I turn a corner, trying to remember where home is.

I’d plotted all day how to get away from him, and now the only thing I can think of is
how to get back
.

Back to Bishop.

Eighty-something hours of knowing him, and he feels like the only safety net I have to hold onto.

I pass a familiar street. I double-back and head down it, letting the wind whip my hair as the sounds from the nearby streets drift into my overwhelmed ears.

My heart is thumping between my ears.

Between the sound of my pulse, the humid summer air rushing past me, and the tapping of my tattered soles, I feel nearly deaf.

I don’t even hear the new man who has materialized, stepping out from the doorway of some hidden alcove.

I don’t hear his impatient breaths or the clenching of his closed fist.

But I come face-to-face with them when he grabs me, planting his calloused palm upon the intersection of my neck and shoulder.

The sudden change of trajectory pushes us both into the darkened niche of another building, into a danger I’d never seen coming.

And right into the clutches of the type of man you just
don’t
want to piss off.