A Spy Like Me Page 41

  Forty

  Both the prisoner and I turned. Jolie’s hired gun, the maitre d’, stood in the doorway. He leaned against the wall, chest heaving, sweat dripping like he’d just taken a shower.

  “You girl, have become too much trouble,” he growled. “And your boyfriend doesn’t seem to be able to get the job done.”

  The prisoner pulled me behind him. The smell of body odor drifted off him, but I didn’t care. The rough texture of his shirt hit my cheek, and it clicked. The photo on Malcolm’s laptop flashed back to me. It was him. Could this guy be telling the truth? He sounded completely off his rocker.

  “You cannot save her!” The maitre d’ stated with confident conviction. “And you cannot save yourself either. You have been too much trouble for the master. You both have run out of time!”

  The barrel of a revolver faced us along with the menacing glare of a butler with an anger-management problem. Time seemed to freeze. The butler went on, but I blocked him out. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Not to me, nice Savvy Bent. The girl who never picked a fight, and who almost always followed directions. Spying for the good of others was one thing, but staring death in the face snapped something inside me. My fingers curled even tighter around the knife still in my hand, and I switched it open.

  The prisoner whispered out of the side of his mouth, “I’ll distract him. You run.”

  My legs twitched with the desire to follow his directions, to turn and flee up the stairs. To run away, search for Mom, or to go get Dad. Then I could go into therapy and hypnosis and brainwash the memories away. But no. Not this time. No more running from the truth. My truth.

  The butler waved the gun at the prisoner. “Back on the chair.”

  I gripped his shirt, not letting him go. The knife felt red hot in my hand, a burning that needed to be released. I switched the knife to my right hand. With my left arm, I shoved the prisoner to the side. The butler’s piercing black eyes caught mine, and he grinned. I whipped my arm over my head and let the knife fly. It soared toward its mark at the same time the revolver went off.

  Instinctively, I screamed, dropped to the ground, and curled into a ball, waiting for a burst of pain. But I felt nothing. Thankfully the butler was probably better at serving pastries than shooting a gun. Someone groaned.

  I crawled over to the prisoner, fearing for his life. I patted his legs and up to his torso, then saw the dark red stain spreading through his shirt. He’d been shot in the side.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God.” I smoothed his hair away from his face.

  His chocolate eyes were kind, but reflected pain as he turned them on me.

  “My time has come. I need to finish. Almost done.” His breathing became quick and labored.

  “No!” I pulled out my Band-aids and fumbled with the wrapper.

  Something had to help. This man did this for me, or so he’d said. Even if he was crazy and had lost it, I couldn’t let him die for me. No one had done that before. I just wasn’t that important. Someone groaned again, but not the prisoner.

  The butler was curled into a fetal position. The knife stuck out of his side, and blood seeped through his fingers. My body prickled with the heat of guilt and the dread that followed. What had I done?

  “Is, is he doing to die?” I stammered, clutching the prisoner’s arm, forgetting the Band-Aids.

  Spying on someone was one thing, but killing a man? That was completely different. I didn’t want murder on my resumé.

  “That doesn’t matter. Listen.”

  All I could see was the red stain, spreading, growing.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I started babbling and couldn’t stop. “Something just came over me when I saw the gun pointed at us. I’m not the kind of the girl who stabs men in catacombs or anywhere for that matter. The most violent thing I’ve done is to kill ants, but you should’ve seen them overrunning our kitchen, swarming over the leftover candy canes. Yes, it was probably my fault.”

  Finally, I ran out of words and grabbed his hand. I traced the chapped, worn skin trying to give him warmth, to let him know I cared. I looked into his eyes. They were still full of compassion. He wasn’t judging, just waiting.

  His body relaxed as his words poured forth, and peace spread across his face. He mumbled about finding my mom, arriving in Paris, and then Jolie finding him. Finally he stopped, but his face was pale. I didn’t say anything. I was wrapped in his words, hoping, wishing he knew where to find my mom.

  He choked and blood dribbled out the side of his mouth. I pressed harder against his shirt to stop the bleeding.

  “Jolie thought I knew about your family. He kept asking. I didn’t say a word.” He could only manage short sentences. Not a good sign. “One night. I knew. The place. The fire. And I saw you caught in a bloody tug-a-war. I need to tell you. You must—”

  A high-pitched scream interrupted his story. And it wasn’t mine.