City of Love (Stone Springs Book 2) by Gracie Ruth Mitchell

Author:Gracie Ruth Mitchell [Mitchell, Gracie Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Lydia

I think Noel might have understated the illegality of his nonprofit work a little. Or maybe a lot. Amazingly, I manage to keep a neutral face as he says goodbye and then leaves.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It just sort of…happened. And in my defense, I wasn’t even paying attention to his conversation until I heard the words “arme à feu” and “couteau.”

“Gun” and “knife.” I don’t study French weaponry, but I did study the sign in the airport that listed prohibited carry-on items. And now I’m a little concerned.

I sigh, finally giving in to my urge to start pacing. It’s a bad habit, but when I’m feeling anxious, pacing seems to help; it gives the illusion that I’m doing something, even if I’m not. And I’m not doing anything, other than worrying myself sick.

But whatever Noel is doing, it’s not good. He’s talking about guns and knives, and he seemed a little off when he saw that calendar alert…

I sit back on the bed, opening my laptop and pulling up a search engine. I quickly search “Montparnasse Baudelaire,” because yes, I saw what his alert said, even though it wasn’t for me. I’ll think about the ethics of that later. Right now I just need to figure this out. I’m not sure what the words mean, but it only takes a second to find the answer.

“It’s a cemetery,” I say. I’m talking to myself, but who else am I going to talk to? “And Charles Baudelaire is buried there.”

So sketchy. So sketchy. He’s going to a cemetery at 9:30 tonight, and he’s talking about guns and knives. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself, but I also feel like a little bit of worrying is justified.

I mean, a cemetery. Guns. Knives.

What if he gets shot? Or stabbed? Or arrested? Or all three?

My eyes widen as I begin to pace again, and I lean over and dig in my purse for my blue stress ball. I squeeze it, and the eyes and nostrils bulge out, looking bulbous and gross. Still, I keep squeezing, my hand clenching and unclenching as I pace.

This is bad. He’s going to be shot and stabbed and arrested. He’s going to die in French prison. What are their prisons like? Are they bad? The guillotine isn’t still a thing, is it?

Whoa, I tell myself. Chill, Lydia.

Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. No one is getting shot. No one is getting their head chopped off. I’m sure it’s fine. Noel isn’t stupid.

I make myself pull my movie back up on my laptop and finish watching it—forced relaxation. It one hundred percent does not work, but it does help the time pass. I’m antsy, and I keep looking out the window—not sure why, but whatever—but nothing helps. My insides are still jittery.

When Mme Marchand finally pokes her head in and asks if I’d like to go to dinner with her and her friends, I decline politely and tell her I’m going to go to bed early. Because it’s only eight o’clock, but sleeping seems like the best option at this point.

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