Two

Gabriel

Odette crosses her arms and pouts, refusing to eat her food.

“Ma chérie, Penelope worked hard to make breakfast for you,” I tell my daughter patiently. “She even made your favorite: oatmeal with cinnamon sugar.”

My little girl shifts in her seat, working her jaw. Her eyes flit between Penelope, our housekeeper, and me, but she doesn’t say anything. In fact, she hasn’t said anything in almost two years.

Not since the accident.

We’re gathered around the kitchen table. All in all, it’s shaping up to be a lovely Friday morning. It’s peaceful out here, exactly the way I designed it. Odette turned five shortly before September, but given her condition, I didn’t feel comfortable enrolling her in maternelle — the French version of kindergarten. The specialists I’ve been speaking to assure me that exposure to other children her age might help her affliction, but I’ve been exceedingly cautious since Marianne’s death.

What if Odette needs to ask a teacher for help? Her inability to properly communicate will only stress her out further. Hell, it’ll stress me out further. As her father, I have a duty to protect her. Keep her safe. And if that means keeping her home with me and teaching her personally, so be it.

“Would you like something else, my dear?” Penelope asks sweetly. She’s a tiny woman pushing seventy years old. Her thinning silver hair is pulled back into a tight, severe bun atop her head. Despite her otherwise snooty appearance, Penelope is nothing but warm and kind. She’s been in my employment for a little over five years now, helping me keep an eye on Odette while staying on top of the household chores.

Odette eyes the gingerbread house kits that sit on the kitchen counter, waiting to be opened. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes that tells me everything I need to know.

“It’s only the first of November,” the housekeeper teases. “If we eat them too early, the gingerbread men won’t have a place to call home.”

My daughter gives me an expectant look. She’s cute as a button, but I don’t budge. I may love her to the moon and back, but I draw the line at poor nutrition.

“Eat your oatmeal, chérie, and then I’ll think about it.”

Her mouth opens slightly. I hold my breath, hoping this is the moment she finally chooses to speak. Instead, Odette snaps her mouth shut and moves to grab her spoon.

So close.

“Perhaps after breakfast we can decorate the living room?” Penelope suggests. “I know we don’t have a tree picked out, but we can still decorate the mantle with ornaments. What do you say, my dear?”

Odette nods, happily kicking her feet back and forth beneath the table. She doesn’t even reach the floor.

Penelope looks to me next. “Care to join us, Monsieur Rochefort?”

“I have some work to do in the office, but I’ll be free in an hour.”

“Oh, wonderful. I assume your clients are keeping you busy?”

I nod. “Everyone’s trying to get their documents in order ahead of tax season. Boring stuff. I should be able to crunch the numbers and—”

The thunderous sound of something crashing through our front gate cuts me off. While Odette and Penelope jolt in their seats, I’m already springing into action. My new life is one of quiet domesticity, but there’s always a small part of me that hasn’t been able to let go of what I used to be. The need to be prepared is ingrained into me, much like breathing or blinking —automatic.

“Stay,” I command, quickly making my way to the front door of the house to peer outside. I peek out the window, but I don’t see anyone. I don’t lower my guard.

Could it be Favreaux?

Even after twenty years, that man still haunts me. He’s my own personal specter. I gave up everything I had to ensure he’d spend the rest of his days behind bars, but I know as well as anyone that nothing can keep that beast locked up. Not forever, anyways. Is today the day my past finally catches up with me?

“What is it?” Penelope asks, her voice shaking. “It felt like an earthquake.”

Three sharp knocks sound at the front door, the ghostly silhouette of a person lingering on the other side of the thick frosted glass. I hesitate to reach for the shotgun stored on the top shelf of the entryway closet. If it really is Favreaux, surely, he’d be smarter than to show up at my front doorstep.

“H-hello?” The voice belongs to a woman.

Curious, and against my better judgment, I open the door. I’m speechless. Standing on the other side is a young woman in her early twenties. She has long black hair and deep brown eyes. She’s about a foot shorter than myself, her slender legs and long arms giving her an indescribable grace. She’s strikingly beautiful, but I’m too preoccupied with the brownish-red staining her clothes to admire her.

“Gabriel Lacroix?” she croaks.

My heart seizes. I haven’t used my real name in over twenty years. Concern lances through me. Who the hell is this woman and why is she bleeding all over my welcome mat?

“My God!” Penelope gasps behind me. She’s holding Odette’s hand, her other hand over her mouth in shock. “Does she need help? Pierre, we must get her to a hospital!”

“No hospital!” the woman snaps in English. Some words don’t require translation.

I frown. “An American?”

Before she can answer, her eyes roll back. Her whole body cants toward me, her legs giving out like wet matchsticks. I catch her, cradling her soft body in my arms as I carefully lower her to the floor. Her eyes flutter as she struggles to stay conscious.

“What is your name?” I ask her in her language. English feels weird on my tongue after going so long without using it, but I’m sure I’m clear enough to understand.

She winces, clutching the front of my shirt in her fingers. “Chester McHale… He told me to come find you. He said you’d keep me safe.”

My head spins. Now that’s a name I never thought I’d hear again.

“Chet?” I mumble in disbelief. “Who the hell are you?”

“It’s raining in the Sahara,” she rasps before she goes limp, unconscious.

The air whooshes out of my lungs. It’s a code. I owe Chet McHale my life, and it seems he’s finally calling in that favor. It looks like my past really has caught up to me, just not in the way I expected.

A sane man would turn this woman away. Call the police, get her to a hospital —anything other than carry her upstairs to my room.

That’s exactly what I do, though, because I’m not a sane man. I gave Chet my word all those years ago, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. I may not know who this woman is or what trouble she’s in, but the fact that she knows my former best friend’s emergency phrase has to mean something.

“Penelope,” I say hastily as I bound up the steps. “I need the first aid kit.”

“R-right,” the housekeeper stammers.

“Bring it immediately. And keep Odette downstairs.”

“Yes, of course.”

I carry the woman down the hall and practically kick my bedroom door off its hinges. She weighs nothing at all. I waste no time setting her down on my bed, working quickly to inspect her injuries.

She groans softly as I help her out of her jacket and shirt. The skin over her left-side ribs is purple and red. There are several cuts on her hands and face, a deep gash just over her temple. The poor woman has dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks hollow and her overall complexion is alarmingly pale.

Most noticeable is the intricate floral tattoo that snaked down her right arm to the wrist and the one inked onto her shoulder blade: a raven with red feathers and an arrow in its beak. It feels strange seeing the design on someone else. It’s cleaner, the linework neater than it used to be, but its purpose is still the same.

She’s a part of Chet’s crew.

Penelope runs into the room with the first aid kit. I rip into it and get to work, cleaning up the worst of her wounds before applying bandages.

“Check her pockets,” I instruct the housekeeper. “See if you can find an ID.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Penelope mutters as she sifts through the woman’s belongings. She pulls out a black flip phone —a burner— followed by a small black case. Penelope unzips it, revealing a selection of lockpicks. “I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“Anything?” I ask, applying an ice pack to her ribs.

“Nothing. Should I check the car outside? She crashed straight through the front gate.”

I shake my head, brushing the woman’s hair away from her face. It’s caked with dried blood and dust. “No, don’t bother. Just make sure to keep Odette away from the wreck. I don’t want it triggering anything.”

“O-okay. Are you sure we shouldn’t call the police?”

Penelope doesn’t know about my past. Neither does my daughter. If they did, they’d know that turning to the police for help is the worst thing to do. I’m not particularly worried about any of our neighbors calling the cops since we live just outside of the city’s limits. We have a good handful of acres on all sides of the property for privacy, so I doubt we’ll have to deal with any nosy witnesses.

“No,” I say firmly. “Stay with Odette downstairs and distract her. I’ll handle this.”

“Distract her? How?”

I grind my teeth, my patience running thin. “Let her eat the damn gingerbread. Turn on some cartoons. I don’t care. Whatever you do, don’t let her up here.”

Penelope nods stiffly before turning on her heels, scurrying away like a mouse. I get that she’s frightened, but I don’t have time to coddle her right now.

If Chet really did send this woman to come find me, something major must be going down. It was my choice to leave that world behind —and my old friend along with it— so deliberately getting me involved after all this time must mean something seriously dangerous is happening.

I’m just about finished patching her up when her eyes snap open. She gasps, body jolting.

“Who are you?” she shrieks, wincing in pain. “Where am I?”

I put my hands up, a tamer calming his lion. “Relax. You’re safe.”

She looks around the room, lost in confusion. She props herself up on her elbows, struggling to sit up. “I have to go back for him. He needs me!”

“Lie down,” I snap. “Before you hurt yourself further.”

“I need to find Gabriel Lacroix.”

“You found him.”

She blinks at me. The poor thing reminds me of a little bird, lost and broken and at the mercy of the world. “You?”

I nod. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Raquel,” she whispers. “Raquel McHale.”

My throat goes dry. “Raquel,” I echo, equal parts amazed and bewildered. It suits her, a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. A thought rips me from my thoughts, however. “Wait a second, you’re Chet’s daughter?”

She passes out again before I get an answer, but I don’t need one. Now that I’ve wiped most of the dried blood off her face, I can see the resemblance. She has Chet’s straight nose and high cheekbones. I’m fascinated by her full lips, her long lashes, and the light scent of peaches beneath the salty tang of blood in the air.

Now that I have a moment of calm, it’s hard to deny her beauty. Raquel is…

Wow.

Stunning is probably the best way to put it. I have to tear my eyes away as I pull the blankets up to cover her body, ignoring the strain in my pants. Just because she’s out cold, that doesn’t give me the right to ogle her. I’m not a fucking creep, and if she really is Chet’s daughter, that makes her doubly off-limits.

I take a seat on the edge of the bed and breathe a heavy sigh.

Well, shit. So much for our peaceful Friday morning.