The Blonde Identity: A Novel

So that was how she ended up following a strange man with a gun through the predawn streets of Paris, stumbling along, trying to match his long strides with her own.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We have to get off the street.” He pushed her down a snowy alleyway and glanced back over his shoulder. “Streets bad. Shelter good,” he said like she was a kindergartner, which wasn’t fair at all. Most kindergartners know their own names.

The wind seemed stronger then, snow swirling like a tiny blizzard, and she was momentarily grateful for his broad shoulders and deep voice. Even the slightly condescending tone she could handle because anger was like a fire now, her only source of warmth.

She wanted to ask him his name or his story. She wanted him to say it was going to be okay. She wanted to demand more details about this destination—this plan. But she also didn’t want to jinx it because getting off the street meant no more walking and no more walking meant no more icy toes and uncomfortable boots. And maybe even no more shooting if a girl wanted to aim superhigh.

“So I don’t suppose we can just . . . I don’t know . . . ask someone where my hotel is and pop by real quick?”

“You want to pop by the hotel they may or may not know about?” He didn’t actually laugh, but he gave the kind of breath that went with one. “Yeah. That’s the one place we will not be going.”

He peeked around the corner of the alley then took off walking down the snowy street, totally indifferent to the fact that she was probably down to six functioning toes by that point.

“But my clothes!”

“We’ll get you new clothes.”

“My passport!” she tried.

His laugh was as cold as the wind. “Yeah. You’re definitely going to need a new passport.”

“But—” She stumbled, sliding on the ice, and a strong arm wrapped around her, anchoring her against his side, and for a moment they just stood there, her trying to figure out why he smelled so good and him no doubt wondering whether or not he should just walk away. She was shaking and wet and half dead with fatigue. She wouldn’t have blamed him.

“I . . .” I want to know my name. I want to know where I live. I want to wash my face and brush my teeth and pull on at least three pairs of socks. I want stretchy pants and warm beverages and answers. She wanted answers more than anything else, but he was right—of course he was right. She could keep complaining and die or she could keep walking and survive, and right then the choice seemed pretty simple. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“Let’s go.” She could keep walking. She could do this.

But when he pulled her toward a patisserie on the corner she almost wept with relief. The air outside was warm and smelled like butter, but Mr. I Don’t Feel the Cold Guy didn’t even slow down. He just grabbed a long cashmere coat off a rack by the door and kept walking. He never even broke his stride.

“You just stole that!”

“Put it on.”

“That’s not mine.”

“It is now. Put it on.”

“But it’s stolen property. I can’t—”

“Look.” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “There wasn’t a single customer in the place and employees would leave their coats in the back. So someone left it. I found it. Lost. Found. Put it on.”

Suddenly, she remembered motorcycles and guns and John the Baptist. Maybe stealing a coat wasn’t the worst offense in the world? So she slipped it on and they kept walking.

When they passed another door, he reached inside and snagged a beret in the same shade of caramel.

“That I did steal,” he said, but she put it on and didn’t say another word.

*  *  *

She didn’t know how long they walked down the narrow, winding streets of Paris, changing directions and dodging into alleys, doubling back and altering speeds. But they never, ever stopped.

“Should we get a taxi or something?” she tried after a while.

“Nope.”

“Am I slowing you down?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m sorry.” She was fully limping at that point. Her toes felt like bloody stumps.

So she wasn’t expecting him to say, “Oh, no. The limping’s fine. Limping’s good, actually.”

“Excuse me?”

“People notice gaits,” he went on, more patient than she would have expected. “Posture. Body language. They don’t know they’re noticing it, but they do. You really want to lose a tail? Put a pebble in your shoe and something heavy in one pocket. But, hey, we don’t have to because you’re limping!”

“Uh . . . yay?” she said.

“That’s the spirit!” He pulled her down another street.

“So if we’re not going to a hotel or the embassy, where are we—”

“To a safe house.”

“Oh, and we’ll be safe there?”

“Yes,” he said with exaggerated patience. “You can tell because the word safe is right there in the title.”

She wanted to snarl at him. Or shout. Or cry. Or curl up in the snow and wait for the plows to come and push her away, but the man had blood on his hands, so the least she could do was keep walking.

*  *  *

It wasn’t the nicest street or the shabbiest. Not the newest or the oldest. The apartment building was utterly nondescript in every way. But he was careful as he approached it, and she let herself have a small glimmer of hope that safe houses might come with soup and cocoa and tiny marshmallows. And also Band-Aids. She really, really needed a Band-Aid.

But as they neared the door, he shifted suddenly, steering her into an alley as if that had been their destination all along.

He was always cautious, but he was practically pulsing with awareness as he pulled out his gun. “Here. Hold this.”

“I don’t know what to do with that!”

“I didn’t say do something with it. Geez! No! The last thing I want is for you to do something. Just”—his tone was especially gentle, like he was handing her a newborn baby—“hold it.”

So she took it. The gun was heavier than it looked and warm from his hand and she was so focused on not accidentally shooting them both that it took her a moment to notice—

“Are you making a snowball?”

“Yup.” He pressed the snow together, packing it tight; then he rose and tossed it at a third-floor window. But the alley was narrow and the window was high, and the snowball landed against the underside of the sill with a splat.

“Shit,” he said, then he bent down and made another one, aiming for the tall window like they were at some kind of carnival and he was trying to win her a prize.

“Um, just out of curiosity, why are we throwing snowballs at a window?”

“The paint on the door was chipped. I just need to check on something,” he said as the third snowball crashed into the glass.

The sound was so loud it almost echoed, and she worried someone might come investigate and find her holding a gun that had recently shot a very large number of very large men.

But he just stood there for a long time, quietly staring up, until—“Hey!” He sounded almost hopeful and more than a little bit relieved. “I guess we’re clear.” He gave her a smile that could fire the sun.

And then the apartment exploded.