Despite everything going on at the agency and the impending fashion show, the models had another half-day at work the next morning. Clipboard Girl ended up having to go to the hospital. The doctors thought she had an ulcer or something. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she did, given the never-ending amount of stress she put herself under. I shouldn’t have been talking, though. I wasn’t exactly all that relaxed either. This case was not helping my stress-management.
As I walked into the familiar old building, greeting the security guard as I entered, I heard two voices coming from Madeline’s studio. Involuntarily, I turned towards Zach but remembered he wasn’t with me. He was still outside, searching for a parking spot, which, in this city, was about as easy as spotting Waldo.
I neared Madeline’s door quietly. It was cracked open slightly, allowing me to peek into the design studio. Madeline was sitting at her desk, Dylan pacing back and forth in front of her. I didn’t see Madeline’s face, but I saw Dylan’s. And he didn’t look happy.
“I’m so sick of this!” he exclaimed.
“You signed up for the job!” Madeline retorted in a tone I had never heard from her before. It was very sharp and to the point, far-fetched from the grandmotherly one she used with me.
“I didn’t know what I was getting myself into!” he countered. Suddenly, his eyes looked up to the door. I tried to get out of the way, but I wasn’t quick enough. Dylan gave me a warm smile, despite how angry he sounded only a few seconds prior. “I have to go,” he told Madeline. I expected her to turn around and say hi, but she went back to working at her desk without a word.
Dylan came out into the hallway, closing the door lightly behind him. “Sorry you had to hear that,” he apologized. He didn’t wait for me to ask for an explanation. “I’ve been a little stressed lately with all of the shows and photo shoots.” He ran a hand through his hair, distracting me for a moment with his soft locks. “I didn’t think it would be this hard. Madeline lets me vent to her.” He gazed at me with his emerald eyes. “Seeing you makes everything better, though.”
I smiled and bashfully nudged him. “You’re so cheesy!”
He laughed out loud. “Let’s go to the studio. We have some pictures to take!”
I watched him closely. Dylan didn’t look sick. I was going to ask him why he really wasn’t at work yesterday because I wasn’t buying that lovesick excuse he scribbled in that letter. But, at the same time, it wasn’t my business. If he was a suspect, well, that would have been another thing. But I couldn’t find any reason as to why Dylan would be killing models. He was the type of person who wanted to make out with models, or so Zach had said at breakfast that morning while I reread Dylan’s letter for the hundredth time.
After several long hours, Dylan set his camera down around lunch, signaling that my horrendous shoot was done. I was terrible at modeling. Tyra would have cut me already. The only reason I hadn’t been fired yet was because of the case. Fred had connections with someone high up in the modeling industry. I didn’t know how or why he had those connections. I didn’t want to ask. But, as a result, it was impossible for me to get fired.
“Are you doing anything the rest of the day?” Dylan asked me at my makeup table. I saw Zach look at him over the top of the French newspaper he was “reading.” It was upside down.
“Um…” I looked at Zach’s dark eyes for an answer. They narrowed above the page. That meant no.
“I don’t think I can,” I told Dylan. Immediately, his shoulders dropped. I felt my heart break a little. He was like a cute, red-haired puppy. I didn’t want to make him sad, but if I wanted to get technical, it was his own fault he wanted to get close to me, a spy who was banned from having any social life.
“You just said the other night that I should get to know you better.” His smooth voice quieted with sadness. I saw Zach role his eyes and stick his finger down his throat.
“That didn’t mean right away,” I said, trying to soothe him and stop Zach at the same time. Why was he so interested in me? And why did he have to be so cute and British? Girls couldn’t reject a British accent. It was a proven, scientific fact.
“Today is just such a nice day. There was this special village I wanted to take you to in the country.” A little French village. Like from fairy tales? He was slowly winning me over and Zach saw it right away.
“Dylan, she’s very busy today,” Zach interrupted, his voice hinting at his annoyance. But surprisingly, Dylan didn’t shrink like I thought Zach’s voice would cause him to do. Instead, he stood a little taller.
“I already checked her schedule in the office. She has nothing planned for today.” He checked my schedule? I was slightly creeped out. “Besides, you have a fiancé, don’t you? Why are you jealous?” Dylan’s snippy question almost sounded like an accusation.
“I’m not jealous,” Zach said indignantly, straying from character for a second. He composed himself quickly. “I’m here to protect her.”
I stood up from my makeup chair and looked around the room. A few eyes were glancing at us. I was so embarrassed, until I saw Christinne looking at me with her icy glare. I gave her a little smile. Let the murderer come to me. I could set up a trap Christinne would fall right into.
“I can assure you nothing will happen.” Dylan grabbed my hand. “I have a car outside, Emma.”
Zach said nothing. What else could he say without giving ourselves away?
“I’ll be right out,” I told Dylan. He didn’t look like he believed me, but he nodded.
After Dylan left, Zach shook his head at me. “We aren’t going to get anywhere with the case if you keep leaving with him.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I snapped at him quietly. “I’m sorry, I can’t come. I have to catch a murderer and turn them into the CIA. Oh, didn’t I mention that? I work for them!”
Zach put a finger to his mouth. “I understand, okay? Just be back by eight.” He sounded like my father. Though my father usually said be back by six, which made dating nearly impossible. I smiled to myself, recollecting the memory. Zach looked at his watch. “Looks like we’ll be pulling an all-nighter again.”
What else was new?
I slid in the back of Dylan’s shiny black car a few minutes later. Zach wasn’t happy, but Dylan didn’t seem like the person to give up that easily. Zach was going to spend the day watching Christinne and pulling her files while I worked some information out of Dylan. Our plan wasn’t amazing, but it was better than Zach sitting back at the hotel doing nothing.
Dylan turned on the radio, an indie group providing the meager background noise. I stared out the window as the buildings became less and further apart. Where was he taking me? I guessed the surprise was the fun of it, but I found myself not enjoying anything knowing that Zach was angry and alone.
“You’re quiet,” Dylan said as he looked at me in the rearview mirror. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, shaking my head. I cursed myself for saying it too quickly. “Nothing,” I said again, slower.
“Whatever you say, Cinderella.” I heard a trace of disbelief in his voice, but he dropped the subject. “Do you like my car?”
What kind of question was that on a date? Was this a date? The car was nice, I guessed. There were a few stains on the seats, though, rusty blotches on the gray fabric. “Was it bought used?”
“Yeah. I could never afford a new car with my salary. How did you know?”
“The stains on the seat.” I pointed to the brown spots. As a spy, little details to others were obvious to me.
“Oh, those.” He crinkled his nose. “The old owners had three young kids. The salesman told me that they had multiple trips to the emergency room in this thing.” He smacked the dash lovingly, like it was his prized horse or something.
“Hm,” was all I could say. I wasn’t going to tell him that the aforementioned was kind of nasty. I scooted more towards the window, away from the blemishes in what was otherwise a pretty impressive motor vehicle.
After a half an hour, Dylan parked the car on a small, cobblestoned street. He hopped out and gentlemanly opened the door for me. “Welcome to Marly-Le-Roi,” he said in a (rather awful) fake French accent. I stepped out of the car and looked around. It was a pretty little village with cobblestones and old buildings, right out of Beauty and the Beast. Still, it failed to take my breath away.
“I was thinking we could get a coffee then go to the gardens together,” I heard Dylan say. I looked up at him and nodded, thinking of other things.
We walked together along the ponds and statues, sipping warm coffee. I took another small swallow, allowing it to warm my insides. A cool breeze tangled my fake brown curls. In L.A., it was always warm. The chilly fall weather of Paris was growing on me, though.
“You’re quiet again,” Dylan said. “You’re not usually like this. What’s wrong?” He slipped a hand around my waist as we walked in step with each other.
“I was just thinking about all of the murders,” I told him. It wasn’t a lie, at least.
“Murders?” He faced me, squinting his eyes. “I’m trying to give you a lovely day and you’re thinking about the murders going on?” He pushed a dark curl off of my face. “You’ll get wrinkles on that pretty face much too early, love.”
I ignored his flirting. “When did they start?” I asked him.
He thought for a moment. “Well, I’d say back in May or early June.”
“Do you have any idea on who it could be? The murderer, that is.” I drummed my fingers on the cardboard coffee cup. I was so anxious as I asked him the question. I needed to distract myself.
“Everyone has their theories,” he laughed, sounding a little nervous, like simply speaking of the murderer would bring about more bloodshed. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” The ever-growing wind was making his face white with cold. His nose was turning slightly pink.
That was the problem. I had no clue. “I don’t-“
He cut me off playfully. “I know you have some idea.” I stayed silent. “Mine is Christinne,” he whispered, glancing around the calm garden as if she was hiding behind a nearby bush.
I whipped my head around. “What? You think it’s Christinne?”
He smiled. “I’ll take it I’m not the only one.”
I bit my lip, trying to hold back my surprise. “What makes you think it’s her?”
“Well,” he sighed, “she’s hates everybody.” No, not Christinne. She is an angel. “And,” Dylan continued, “apparently, according to some rumors, she threatens everyone.”
He lowered his voice. “The day Adelaide Lefevre was killed, Christinne and she were involved in this terrible fight. Christinne locked her in a closet over something. No one knows what. But when Adelaide confronted her, rumor has it Christinne told her to watch herself. She said her days at the top of the modeling world were coming to an end quicker than she thought.” He turned to me, his face like that of a person telling a ghost story. “Adelaide’s remains were found the next morning in an incinerated taxi.”
So my theory about Christinne being the murderer wasn’t so farfetched after all. I only hoped Zach was getting enough evidence to back up Dylan’s statements.
“Hope I didn’t scare you,” Dylan said as he tightened his grip on my waist.
Scare me? No! I needed more info! “What about the other girls? Cosette? Elizabeth?”
Dylan bit his lip, in deep thought. “Well, Cosette dated Christinne’s brother, Christophe. He’s the big one in her posse, dark hair and muscles?” I nodded, finally putting a name to one of the men in Christinne’s entourage. “Supposedly, she cheated on him.” The girl in the sewers said we, meaning there could very well be two murderers. Could Christophe be the second?
“And Elizabeth tripped Christinne at a show a few weeks ago. She was laughed at for days.” Everyone murdered had some sort of tension with Christinne. Was it coincidence or something more?
“Why hasn’t she been investigated?” I asked Dylan.
He turned to me, uplifting an eyebrow. “Do you think the public would believe that the most famous model in Europe has strangled and stabbed a dozen women to death?” I looked down at my shoes. Even I had trouble believing it at times. “Besides, no has ever actually heard her threaten these girls except the girls themselves. They’re not exactly here to give their side of the story, are they?”
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. The sky was turning gray, signaling the end to another day in Paris.
“Let’s get back to the car before it gets too late. I know your bodyguard doesn’t want you out long,” Dylan said as he gently placed his jacket over my shoulders.
We started our little walk back to the car, the sky growing darker with every passing minute. The ominous clouds above hinted at a strong storm. They moved quickly across the gray sky as the wind picked up its speed.
Like I predicted, the drizzle started right when we got to the car. Dylan held his jacket over my head as he leaned down to open the door. He stood back up, his green eyes meeting mine, holding them for a few seconds.
My heart started beating quickly. The rain began to fall harder, heavy and painful as it hit my skin.
Without any words, Dylan helped me into my seat. He slid in next to me. We sat centimeters apart. The only sound was the pelting rain and my beating heart. Why did he do this to me? Why did he make me feel dozens of different, conflicting emotions at once? My common sense told me to stay away from him and only be friends, where my teenage girl sense told me to give in. The only thing I knew about him was that I knew nothing of him, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He leaned in towards me, pulling my lips to his. I wanted to pull away so much, but I found myself pulling towards him. I was scared to learn that I trusted him, and in this business, trust was something to be wary of. You could trust the completely wrong person. But what was wrong with Dylan? He was helping me, even if he didn’t know it.
I heard the rain pelting the top of the car, mixed with the pounding of my heart and my brain screaming at me to push him away.
His cell phone began to ring. It rang at least five times before he decided to answer it. He pulled away from me, with a mumbled apology, and yanked his phone out of his pocket. “I have to take this,” he said and got out of the car.
I sat there listening to the drumming in my ears for a few seconds. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I was supposed to be doing a job. I just broke every rule of the CIA and my parents: no relationships while on a mission. I could care less about the CIA rule. It was my parents’ rule that made my heart swell with guilt.
Minutes later, Dylan, his hair wringing wet, jumped back into the car. “Sorry, love.” His face was suddenly ashen, but he still placed his hand on my leg. “Where were we?”
I could have spent hours with him, but I knew better. I slid away from him, towards the window. “I think you were about to take me back to Paris,” I said as I did my seatbelt.
I saw his shoulders drop again. “Emma-”
“It’s getting late,” I cut him off, clicking the buckle.
He took that as the final word. Sighing heavily, he jumped into the front seat. “You kiss beautifully,” he said matter-of-factly, eyeing me from the rearview mirror.
As cute as he was, I wasn’t going to be easy to get again. He got me twice, but he wouldn’t get me a third time. I clenched my jaw and raised my eyebrows, staring back at him, trying to give him my best Zach-expression of being thoroughly un-amused. “If you think that’s going to work, try again. I’m from Los Angeles. I’m used to flirting.”
He pressed down on the breaks, the car coming to a slow stop. I immediately knew I had said something I shouldn’t have.
“You’re from Kansas. I thought you told me that.” Dylan turned around, all humor washed from his face.
I stuttered as I attempted to fix my mistake. How did he remember that? “I am. But I lived in L.A. for a few years.”
He stayed silent, watching me. I tried not to lower my eyes, but his luscious green ones bore into me. It was like he could read my mind. “You’re lying.”
I jumped to defend myself. “No-“
He smiled and leaned towards me, his breath warm and minty. “You talk too quickly.”
My fast-beating heart screeched to a halt. It was the same thing Fred had told me numerous times. How did he know I was lying that easily? I kept my steady gaze, but it wasn’t working. He knew I was lying. I took a breath and decided to tell him the truth.
Well...Emma Blake’s truth.
I shrugged my shoulders and looked at him from under my thick lashes. “It looks better on a résumé when you’re from L.A. so I lied a teeny bit. Sometimes I forget, but usually I don’t.” I bit my lip. Please believe me.
He started driving again, his attention back on the road. “You are so rebellious. I never expected that of you.” I saw his eyes crinkle in the mirror and breathed deeply. I was safe, but I had to watch my tongue better in the future.
Within fifteen minutes, Dylan pulled up in front of the hotel.
There was a lot I had to tell Zach about Christinne and I couldn’t wait to get started.
I undid my seat belt as Dylan opened the door. We stood there like two strangers, glancing around at all of the old buildings, but not at each other. It was definitely a contrast from twenty minutes ago when he was chewing at my lip.
“I should go,” I told him after several moments of silence.
“Yeah. You don’t want to get in trouble.” His eyes darted around him, finally resting nervously on me. “Be careful.”
His words struck something in me. What did he really know?
I walked into the lobby, glancing at my watch. It was a little before eight. Right on time. I didn’t want to see Zach’s expression if I was late.
Zach's lover was sitting at the front desk for the first time since her little rendezvous with him in the lobby. Boxes of tissues were lined up in front of her. Three to be precise. I tried to avoid her attention, but she stopped me.
"Mademoiselle Blake, you have a letter. It came no less than five minutes ago.” She handed me a small envelope.
I thanked her quickly, but she didn’t let me go that easily.
“Is your bodyguard still present?" Her eyes were puffy, her nose was red, and her lips were chapped. She was a mess.
To my surprise, I felt really bad for her. I definitely couldn’t tell her the truth, that Zach had played her in the name of the CIA. So I lied. "No. His brother was in a car crash back in the states. He took the first plane home. He's with him now at the hospital.” I could at least make him seem like a caring person even if he was far from it.
She gave a broad grin. "So he didn't forget."
I played dumb. "Forget about what?"
Her eyes widened. "Nothing,” she murmured before I left her in the lobby, dreaming of a reunion with the lovely Zachary Freeman.
In the elevator, I opened my letter. Who was it from? It couldn’t be another one from Dylan. I just saw him.
I unfolded the nearly blank paper. Inscribed neatly at the top, in curly script that could have only belonged to a young woman, was Stay Away From Dylan, Emma. Or Else.
Christinne!
The doors opened to my floor just in time. I bolted out and into the suite, almost colliding with Zach. “There you are,” he said, “I was watching Christinne today-”
I cut him off, saving him the trouble. “It’s her, it’s Christinne! I have proof!” I shoved the letter to him, my hands shaking from excitement.
As his eyes darted across the page multiple times, the files in his hands slipped to the ground. I waited for a response. Once he said something, we could call Fred. He’d bring in the interrogation team. With the verbal threats, necklace, and this letter, who else could it be but Christinne?
He folded the letter neatly and handed it back to me and said what I was thinking rather calmly: “Why don’t we give Fred a call?”