Chapter Twenty-One

Juliette

Paris, France

Saturday 9:46 p.m.

J uliette emerged from the taxi after paying the woman. Her hand rested on the hood and the opened door as the scene swam in her eyes. She was so close to crawling into a bed. So close. As she gripped at the car and her body swayed, she heard the woman say, "I'm coming, just a moment."

The driver had tapped on her emergency flasher and rounded toward Juliette. Reaching into the back seat, the driver retrieved the crutches and handed them off, then grabbed up the backpack. "I'll help you in," she said, pulling the backpack over a shoulder.

Juliette was both grateful and worried. She thought that if she looked too sick ? or drunk, or drugged ? that the motel wouldn't let her stay. But her crutches might be the cover she needed.

The woman walked over to the door and held it wide as Juliette katchunked forward. She stumbled as she crossed from the darkness outside to the illumination inside the tiny lobby area. She laughed it off, saying in French, "My first day on crutches. I'll figure it out sooner or later."

The driver set the bag by the desk, wished everyone a good evening, then left.

Juliette moved toward the clerk, plastering her game face in place. First, she covered for her red, sweaty face. "Whew, who knew it was so much work to use these things?" Then she smiled and spoke to the man beside the computer screen. " Bonsoir, monsieur. I'm Roxanne Olsen. I called and made a reservation a short time ago."

The man looked her over. "Yes, a two-hundred-euro deposit. And I need to see some I.D."

It had specifically said that they didn't need I.D. on their website, but obviously she was lifting red flags for this guy. She had thought this might happen and had come up with a plan. She opened her new phone case and pulled out the money and one of Roxanne's business cards. "Deposit. And I'm sorry, but my purse was stolen earlier this morning on the train. Luckily, I had my money and gift cards tucked in my phone and that was in my hand. I have my card, other than that…"

He picked up the card and looked it over. "You are American?"

"Yes."

"You are a writer?"

"Yes, I'm here in Paris working on a new story." She reached out and tapped the card. "I do romance, and what city is more romantic than Paris?"

He nodded and moved to tuck the card into the register.

"Oh," Juliette said. "I need that. It's the only thing I have with my name on it."

He stared at Juliette, then at the card. He set it in front of his keyboard and typed the information in. It included Juliette's actual home address and Roxanne's home office number. Juliette wasn't sure if that was dangerous or not.

Her immediate danger was fainting.

She needed to eat, take more pain pills, and sleep. She wasn't sure that would fix her. This wasn't an abnormal occurrence. About every couple of weeks, but nothing like clockwork, this happened to her. Her father would take her to his Montrim lab and hook up an IV. He said it was, for the most part, electrolytes and hydration. Since she didn't know the cocktail, Juliette couldn't tell a doctor or hospital what she needed. Of course, she could just call her dad and ask.

Juliette didn't know why, but that's where that thought ended. She knew she wouldn't be calling her dad. Something had shifted for her when she visited her childhood apartment in Toulouse, and that something had solidified when she was soundly dismissed at her grandmother's house. Her memory pictures lined up with both places, but living breathing people contradicted those pictures. That was strange, right? she asked herself.

" Mademoiselle ?" The man held up an old-fashioned room key on a plastic keychain. He'd canted his head and was scowling.

"What? Oh, sorry. I was running a character conversation through my head." That was a typical sentence that Roxanne used when Juliette was trying to talk to her, and she got that far-away look in her eyes.

"Since you're on crutches, I'll carry your backpack for you. I don't normally do that." His tone seemed strange to Juliette. Did it put him out that badly? She hadn't asked for help, but Juliette guessed that the taxi driver had made that a precedent, and he'd look like a cad for not offering. Juliette wished she could say, "No that's okay. I'm fine." But she wasn't fine. The picture of her crawling toward the planter at the airport came back to her. " Merci. I would appreciate that."

He locked the front door and put up a sign that said, "Back at" and had a clock with moveable hands beneath. He checked his watch then set the clock for five minutes in the future and stuck it in the window.

Juliette was dismayed when she saw the steep narrow steps. This was all but impossible. "I think perhaps, if you'll take my crutches as well, I'll just crawl up the stairs on my hands and knees."

He reached over, took them from her hands, and moved up the stairs.

Juliette did her best to follow him.

Her room was tiny. A slender bed was set against the wall, beyond that an armoire took up the rest of the space on the left. A narrow walkway allowed her to move through the room. On the right, the bidet was, disturbingly, directly across from the head of her bed. Beyond that was a sink and a narrow desk with a stool. The wall opposite the door had a long window that opened out to a balcony, just wide enough for a single person to stand.

The toilet was at the end of the hall. Next to that, the man explained, she'd find shower stalls. She'd need coins to access them. The hot water was purchased in five-minute increments. He had change downstairs if she needed it.

" Merci bien ," she said, waiting for him to leave the room. There wasn't enough space to cross paths inside.

When she heard him on the staircase, she locked the door and slid the chain into place.

Juliette's face swayed in the mirror as she dragged the headband from her hair. After pulling off her clothes, laying them across the open armoire door to air, she got the soap from her bag and gave herself a sink bath. Her hand brushed over the burn mark on her thigh. Unlike the silver ones on her feet that she'd gotten in the accident that killed her mother, this burn was pink. It looked like she'd painted herself with a brush. The larger beginning that tapered and feathered as it wrapped her thigh. This burn, her dad had said, was from the fire at the apartment in Toulouse. Her mother had saved her, he'd said, but everything they owned had been lost. She was their most precious treasure, so who cared about the rest?

But the concierge had said there hadn't been a fire in the last hundred years, Juliette reminded herself as she used the rough hand towel to dry herself off.

She used the bidet to relieve herself and wash.

She was clean enough.

This was good enough, she cajoled herself as she pulled the newly purchased nightgown over her head, letting it fall over her body, the hem resting on the orange and green patterned carpeting. It was a cheap polyester material. But it felt silky, and it was a pretty shade of pink. Juliette felt like she needed a little pink ? a little softness against her right then.

Her food was tasteless as she swallowed down a few bites. She put the rest of the food in the tiny dorm-sized fridge inside the armoire. After refilling her water bottle, Juliette dragged the desk stool over beside her bed to function as a table. She tipped two acetaminophens into her hand, setting the bottle next to her new cellphone and water. When she pressed the button on her light switch, the room became a dark background with dancing shadows cast from the street light through the curtains.

She lay down. And snuggled beneath the sheets. Her heated cheek rested on the cool cotton pillow.

Hopefully, sleep would bring her some relief. Hopefully, her brain would function better in the morning.