Chapter Two

Juliette

Toulouse, France

Saturday, 9:00 a.m.

T he cab stopped in front of a house. It was small. Neat. And blended in with every other house in this neighborhood.

Juliette looked into the rearview mirror to catch the taxi driver's eye.

"This is it." He pointed at the house with a plaster cat sitting on the steps. He had a deep resonant tone that Juliette could hear well enough, though his accent was strange to her ears and that presented its own comprehension problems. She held out her credit card and asked him to add a ten percent tip.

There was a woman standing at the picture window, holding back the curtain and peering out at the taxi. She was too young to be Juliette's grandmother.

Juliette pulled up her memory-picture of this house and yes, it included the same orange plaster cat on the stairs in exactly the same spot. All those many years ago… It's odd that nothing had changed since I was young . Nothing . It's all exactly as it's always been.

Those thoughts weren't comforting to Juliette.

As a matter of fact, it set her on edge. It made her feel confused and dizzy. More so than normal. Confusion and dizziness were part of her disability. She'd been in an accident with a traumatic brain injury. But she was lucky. So very lucky. Her father was one of the world's foremost neuroscientists. He had done decades of research into PTSD and brain injuries. Because of her dad, Juliette had gotten cutting edge help.

Her fingers travelled up to the scar hidden by her long, honey-blonde hair. Because of her father's expertise, Juliette had at least recovered some pictures.

And now she'd get to go talk to her grandmother.

Juliette hoped this trip back to her childhood would spark memories for her. Make her feel more whole and less like someone who had plopped, fully-formed, into this life.

The taxi driver cleared his throat and waggled her credit card at her.

Juliette sent him a nervous smile as she took it back and tucked it into her wallet. She swallowed as she released her safety belt.

"Hey, do you want me to stick around for a minute?" the driver asked. "Make sure everything's okay?"

Juliette rolled her lips in and considered the offer. "No, thank you. I'll be fine." She pulled the door release, feeling jittery, not quite able to catch her breath.

This should be easy. Juliette was coming home.

She stepped from the car. Along the sidewalk, a young boy peddled on his tricycle. Brown silky curls, rosy red cheeks, a blue and white striped shirt, he was picturesque. Juliette wanted to save his face in her memory-photos. She glanced up at her grandmother's house, and the woman had moved out of the window. The lace curtain hung straight.

Juliette followed the short walk up to the door, stopping to lay her hand on the plaster cat. Had she pet this cat as she played at her grandmother's house? It must have had some significance to her if this was one of the few picture-memories that she held.

The door opened. "Yes?" the woman asked.

"Hello," Juliette said with a smile. "I came to visit Pascale DuBois."

"Why?" the woman asked, pulling the sides of her cardigan sweater to crisscross them over her chest.

"Oh!" Juliette extended her hand for a shake. "I'm her granddaughter, David DuBois's daughter, Juliette."

The woman stared at her for a long moment, frowning. She didn't move to accept the handshake. "Stay here."

Juliette looked toward the little boy on his trike. He bustled up and down the sidewalk, peddling as hard as he could, then pulling the handles to the side, trying to get the trike to skid through a one-eighty.

He roared by her again and the bike flipped when he tugged the handles. The little boy's wail started very low and quickly climbed the scale to where Juliette could no longer hear him.

But she could see him tangled in the wreckage and ran to his aid.

One of the spokes stuck out as she reached to pick the little boy up, and she scratched herself on it as she pulled the little boy free. When Juliette saw blood, bright red against the white stripe on his shirt, she quickly searched him to see where he was bleeding. Scraped palms and holes in his pants' legs, the child had come out bumped and bruised, but it was Juliette who was bleeding.

A man ran down his steps and over to them, accepting the boy from her arms.

"I'm sorry," Juliette said. "I scraped myself. I've gotten a little blood on his shirt. Cold water should get it out."

The man stroked his hand over the little one's curls. " Pas de problème," he said. Not a problem. "Merci beaucoup." He propped the boy on his hip then lifted the broken trike and walked slowly back to his house.

Juliette turned back toward her grandmother's.

"You there." The woman in her cardigan stood at the door, and Juliette walked over to talk to her, adjusting the strap of her purse back onto her shoulder. "I don't know what you're up to," the woman said. "But Madame DuBois says she has no grandchildren. Her son David is a homosexual man and disliked children. There is no way that you are related to her."

Juliette's mouth dropped open.

"I've called the police. They're on their way. Get now! Get!" Then she slammed the door shut.

Juliette was left standing there, blinking.

She didn't know what to think.

She could hardly think.

She was so confused. So disoriented. Maybe when the police came, they could facilitate a talk between her and her grandmother. She could tell her grandmother what her dad was doing. With her phone's album, Juliette could show her grandmother pictures of her and her dad, and where they lived in Washington DC.

Her grandmother was certainly old, Juliette reasoned. Perhaps she had dementia. Alzheimer's would explain this situation. Except the woman Juliette assumed was the caregiver had said her dad was homosexual. That was the second time today that Juliette was told the same thing.

Juliette had always thought her dad's disinterest with dating was because he was still in love with her mother. Still grieved her mother's death. Homosexual? She tried that thought on for size. She'd never considered her father's sexual orientation.

She rested her palm on her forehead. The fever that started yesterday morning, accompanying her from Washington, was getting worse. Juliette wondered how long it would take for the police to get there. She turned to see the little boy was soothed and back to playing in his front yard. His dad was reading a book on the porch steps. She thought maybe he might not mind her sitting on his stairs for a moment while she waited for the police.

Her head swam, and she was afraid the vertigo would make her fall. She had decided to leave her stability dog at home with her caregiver rather than cramp him into the floor space on a plane for hours on end. Toby was a huge Newfoundland dog, a hundred and fifty pounds of black-furry kindness and love. His harness had a handle that she could hold on to as she walked. And if she were to fall, Toby stood by her side until she regained her equilibrium. He helped her feel safe. I could sure use Toby with me right now.

Juliette walked across the street to ask if she might sit down. She made it as far as the gate when she staggered forward. As she reached out to grab the post, she heard a car engine roar up the street.

"Ah," she thought, "an undercover unit."

The car came to a stop and two men in plain clothes jumped out, rounding toward her.

Juliette smiled. "Hello, there." And that's when she had her first flash of a memory. A real memory, not a picture-memory. These men she recognized. They were the men who had attacked her at the conference. They had tied her up. The conference? She stepped back. There was more. There was more about the conference. There was more about her past life. It bubbled up along with a giddy laugh that was pure terror.

Each man had a gun in his hand.

Juliette swung her head to make sure the boy was safe.

The father reached out, grabbed his child around his waist, and leaped up his stairs and through his front door.

"Get in," the man growled in Russian.