A sudden rainstorm crept stealthily into the city of Paris. The past autumn weeks had been unusually chilly, but the storm looming in the distance turned the damp fall air even cooler than it had been previously. The storm snuck around corners and crept down alleyways. It hovered above the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre before gradually revealing itself.
Slow drops of rain began to crescendo into a heavy downpour; the music of fall starting quietly before exploding into a booming cacophony. Almost instantly, bereaved tourists ducked into the many warm and welcoming cafes and bakeries. Once the cozy spaces became much too snug for their liking, they turned around. The storm left them with no choice but to head back to their inexpensive, overcrowded hostels and luxurious hotels where they would wait anxiously for the next day.
As the streets were emptying, Adelaide Lefevre walked quickly through the puddles, wishing she had thought to bring an umbrella with her. Her home was a little more than a mile away. It was a walk she could normally accomplish in a quarter of an hour, or so. When she left her apartment that morning, the sky had been a beautiful shade of blue, leaving no inkling that the evening would be so dreadful and grey. With her shoes slipping along the sidewalk, her clothes sopping wet, and the wind and rain plastering her long hair around her face, her usually brisk walk was hindered and slow.
Behind her, feet scraped against the pavement.
She turned her head around swiftly, filled with anxiety. She was sure someone was following her as she left her job, a small modelling agency, on the Rue de Pondichery. At first, she thought nothing of the footsteps, for many people followed her. Usually, they were begging for autographs or pictures or...locks of hair. She was, after all, one of the most beautiful women in all of France. According to Style et Séduction magazine, anyway.
This feeling of being followed had been going on for days. Nearly as soon as she left the front steps of her apartment was when the feeling commenced. The sound of footsteps marched behind her and the feeling of eyes burning into the back of her neck plagued her. Whenever she built up the courage to turn around, no one would be there. Poof. Gone. Fear propelled her forward. She walked so quickly in the mornings, she sometimes thought she was running to the modelling agency's offices, nearly barrelling through the doors.
On that night, like always, just as quickly as the footsteps had started, they disappeared. Adelaide made herself breathe deeply a few times, in through her nose and out through her mouth, as her yoga instructor recommended. All of this hard work was getting to her. Fittings and photo shoots and interviews filled her calendar. Her strict diet and twelve hour workdays were beginning to be too much. They were exhausting her. By the time she threw herself on top of her bed, she was asleep before she could unbuckle the straps of her Gucci heels.
It is nothing to worry about, she scolded herself. Stop being so paranoid.
It hadn't been a good day at work. She spent five hours posing for a fall photo shoot and three hours doing a television special on the upcoming Paris Fashion Week. Another hour of her day was spent trying to escape a locked dressing room. It took two bodyguards, a locksmith, and the camera guy from the television special to break down the door.
Adelaide knew instantly, as she pounded on the dressing room's walls and screamed until her voice grew hoarse, that Christinne LaRoux was behind it all. When it came to the spotlight, jealous models could be beastly and Christinne was the ugliest beast of all. Every runway show was a race, every photo shoot a competition between the two of them. They competed over who had the smaller nose and the bigger boobs and the whiter smile. They sold dirty tips to gossip magazines and coordinated appearances at the city's most luxurious restaurants. Adelaide even got the television special over Christinne after a few drinks with the show's producer several months before.
As Adelaide melted in the heat of small dressing room, submerged by piles and piles of last season's wrinkled dresses and blouses and jackets, her manager shouted to her through the door.
"It is probably a broken lock," she said. Her voice was muffled, but Adelaide could hear the fear on its surface. Even her manager knew the real reason behind the incident and the last thing she needed was her client to murder the most popular up-and-coming runway model in the world, right in front of television cameras.
Even remembering the incident made Adelaide fume. She was determined to get back at Christinne, if it was the last thing she ever did.
Lightening sparked, its finger-like bolts reaching across the night sky and casting a blinding white light upon the city. It outlined the Eiffel Tower and the dark, hostile clouds behind it. Another bolt and flash of light revealed the deserted streets. Adelaide quickened her pace, thinking only of her warm bed and a cup of hot chocolate. And an éclair. But she couldn't let anybody know about that. She was supposed to be on a no-carb diet.
As she thought of her comfy home with its warm bed and big screen television, a taxi sped past. A tidal wave of muddy water roared from the gutter and crashed onto Adelaide. It soaked through her clothing, chilling her to the bone.
Before she had time to spit out a slew of curse words, the car reversed. The driver rolled down the window, but only enough so that his hairline and green eyes were visible to Adelaide. He apologized and asked her if she wanted a ride, keeping his eyes downcast as he spoke in shaky French. Adelaide detected a faint British accent. Another poor fool looking for his big break in Paris. An artist, maybe? Perhaps even a model?
He asked again, his eyes still diverted, focused on the grey steering wheel before him.
Adelaide looked up at the unwelcoming sky and thought of the mysterious, heavy footsteps She nodded. Hurriedly, she slid into the back seat, making sure to smear an adequate amount of mud on its leather. She quickly gave the driver her address as she wrung the water from her black hair. She didn't have any money, but she could just charge her fee to the agency. After all, they owed her. She was the only model willing to do the TV special with that pushy reporter.
She looked out the window as the taxi drove past all of the old buildings that had seen more history than any museum curator could possibly dream. She had walked past the buildings every day. They didn't make her jaw drop in awe like they did to the millions of tourists flocking into the city in trains and planes every single day. She didn't care that by closing her eyes, she'd miss the towering Eiffel Tower and the glistening Seine. She'd rather rest and dream of New York City. She was supposed to go in two weeks. It would be her first time leaving Paris and she couldn't wait for the change of scenery.
The car moved smoothly along the road as the rain pelted the windows. Adelaide closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of the rain. The driver drummed his hands to some unsung song. The near silence went on for a while. Adelaide began to doze, but she couldn't comfortably situate herself in the cramped back seat of the taxi cab. Something unseen poked and prodded her and made her uneasy.
She shifted in her seat and opened her eyes. The car was driving faster, the city whirling past her. She knew the route from the agency to her apartment as well as she did the latest fall fashions. She should have been home by now. She glanced out the back window as the buildings passed by. They were three blocks past her apartment.
"You passed my house," she informed the driver. "Just turn around at this street up here," she directed impatiently. She just wanted to get home. She was wet. She was tired. And she was starving.
The car continued its journey forward.
"Turn around!" Adelaide commanded loudly.
Instead of turning the car around, the driver turned himself around, giving Adelaide a glimpse of his face for the first time all night. He was very young, probably twenty. He was cute, too. Or would have been. He was shaking uncontrollably, his face pale and his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He pulled the car over quickly, the back wheels jumping the curb.
Adelaide's head banged against the low car ceiling. "What's wrong?" she asked, somewhat alarmed. Out of all of the cabs she could have chosen that night, she got the one with the psycho behind the wheel, she thought to herself.
Just as she was eyeing the door handle, readying herself to make an escape, two hands grabbed her from behind. She screamed loudly as she struggled to loosen their tight grip from around her neck. She caught the driver's eyes in the mirror. They were wide as they watched her struggle. Adelaide stared at him frantically, her eyes pleading with him. Help me! Why won't you help me?
Her cries were lost deep down in her throat. Only gasping breaths escaped her lips.
The attacker let go of her neck. Adelaide flung around and came face-to-face with a young girl. A normal girl wouldn't have scared her. She was catty and she knew she could take her. She could rip the hair extensions out of even the most vicious of girls. She had only imagined doing it to Christinne nearly every day. But this girl behind her had the eyes of a person intent on doing one thing: killing.
Adelaide grasped at the door handle, struggling as she attempted to open the door. It wouldn't budge. She used all of her might, even kicking the glass windows with her sharp stilettos. It was no use. Her desperate sobs mixed with the girl's insane laughter and pounding rain. In the front seat, the driver covered his ears and lowered his head. He was curling into himself, like a frightened animal.
In the rearview mirror, the two frightened eyes of the driver had disappeared. In their place was the shaky hand of the girl, a large knife tightly clutched in her fist.
Adelaide felt as though she had to be on one of those television prank shows. She wanted to scream "Okay, you got me!" but she knew deep down that something was definitely wrong. She banged on the glass windows, screaming at the few tourists who walked past. The deafening thunder and wind did nothing but muffle her pleas for help.
The blade of the sharp knife was getting closer. Adelaide's mind started racing uncontrollably. Twenty-four years' worth of memories flickered before her, but each one was stained with the same question: Who are these people?
That night in Paris, a smoldering taxi was found along the Rue de Grenelle.