XV. DEVIL'S EDGE

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XV.

D E V I L ' S  E D G E

—aka, wondrous, terrible thing being in love,

—aka, wondrous, terrible thing being in love,

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INT— A MOVING VEHICLE.

PARIS, FRANCE — NIGHT.



CONT. SCENE III.



MY EYES FLUTTERED shut.

Usually, I'd be ecstatic to be in Paris.

People can say its cliche, but Paris was like an old lover you just always know. You spot each other's gaze from across a busy room, almost as if you were looking for them but haven't actually seen them; a knee jerk reaction— a rancid thought telling you that what you had with them was a magical night unable to to be repeated, a beautiful dream meant to linger in your memories and nothing more — attracted by the deja vu that held both of you by that single memory.

There's a recognition, a smile, a nod. And like deja vu, you knew how the end was going to play. In the comforts of the familiar Once Upon a Dream ago, in the ocean memory of the sighs and kisses you'll bury just where you kept them.

That was Paris to me.

But I had just escaped from Paris, and was still using the goddamn name I used to escape.

And used in a con.

I groaned. Loudly.

My head counted probability, my statistical analysis of personal success and failure when it came to situations and jobs had been one of my best abilities as a con woman.

Still using a name (1) you used in a con, you used in this particular city (2), with not a smidge of difference in your physical appearance (3)?

The chances heighten. In fact, the chances is enough to keep even the most calm motherfucker tip-tap-tapping away.

And what was the con? A public affair that involved a big soiree, a big lady, and a very prominent object that was kept under heavy guard.

That was now missing of course, hello, and said name, face and character I had embodied as one of the most prominent suspect for the entire affair I was still using.

The chances of getting caught rose to a laughable level. That's why I had the perfect plan, hiding away in Russia, life moved on, all's well that ends well. I'd come to Paris in a year or two, with how big the loot was— and how high the mark was in terms of success in attempts to find me, maybe a few more months in between that year or two.

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