slide up from my crouched position behind the car, aim for his knee, and just as my perpetrator fumbles to lift his gun, I shoot.
He collapses into the bloodstained snow with a groan, and I take off toward the train station, envisioning Isla’s violet eyes as I run.
The inside of the Lausanne train station is mostly deserted on this harsh winter night. I imagine families curled up in front of crackling fireplaces, watching Christmas lights twinkle as they sip warm mugs of chocolat chaud , and prepare for Christmas Day festivities.
But this winter wonderland Swiss town is not so charming tonight as I shiver alone in a dark corner of the train station, staring at the arrivals and departures screen. I note that only two trains are passing through Lausanne in this last half an hour before the clock strikes midnight. One of them is a Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train—the same luxury train that Isla boarded from this exact train station only two nights ago. The other must be Samuel’s.
I head to the platform where both trains will be crossing through on opposite tracks, keeping one eye over my shoulder the whole time to make sure no one is following me.
Sirens shoot through the night just as I reach the platform. The Swiss police are about to discover the carnage waiting for them in the traffic circle just down the road from the station, but hopefully Samuel will arrive before they discover me too.
The pistol weighs heavily inside the large black coat I’m still wearing, and my frozen fingertips are ready to pull for it should the need arise.
I gaze through the blanket of snow that swirls above my head, dusting the round, glowing clock hanging above the platform. The ticking grates at my nerves, but I try to stay calm and be patient.
Round, fluffy snowflakes flitter down from the black sky, covering the tracks, inch by inch. The distant sound of a train whistle blowing sends hope into this frozen body of mine. But just as I’m peering down the tracks, glimpsing the first sign of light through the sheets of snow, a soft female voice travels through the night.
“Jillian.”
My heart pounds as I flip around and find an older woman standing before me, her shoulder-length, silvery white hair glistening in the glowing halo of snow that twirls around her.
“My name is Madeleine Morel. I’m Frédéric’s aunt and Laurent’s sister.” The woman’s sapphire eyes smile warmly at me underneath thick black lashes, the graceful lines of age on her soft pink skin revealing experience, knowledge.
Madeleine Morel —the beautiful older woman in the portrait that I’d discovered hiding in the Morels’ storage closet.
“I’m sorry if I startled you, but I have something urgent you need to see. Something that will help you find Isla,” she says.
“How did you find me here?” I ask.
“Georges, the chauffeur who dropped you off at the police station, is my twin brother.”
Suddenly that silvery gleam in her pretty blue eyes rings a bell. Georges boasted those same intriguing eyes. And the same warm demeanor.
Something isn’t adding up though.
“I read the plaque on the Morels’ wall,” I tell her. “It said you only had one brother, Laurent.”
“It is a long story, some of which I’m about to tell you right now.” She peeks warily over her shoulder. “But we don’t have much time.”
In her hands, Madeleine’s carrying an old, tattered shoe box. She lifts the lid to show me the contents. Inside are stacks of old letters along with a few black-and-white photographs.
The train whistle blows again, but the train is still a ways down the tracks as Madeline plucks the top letter from the stack, opens it up, and hands it to me.
I hold the crinkled paper underneath the dim glow of the lamp overhead. Faded French words line the yellowed page, and before I know it, I am transported to another time.
1 décembre 1937
My dearest Rosie,
The days are long and cold without you. But my love for you will never
He collapses into the bloodstained snow with a groan, and I take off toward the train station, envisioning Isla’s violet eyes as I run.
The inside of the Lausanne train station is mostly deserted on this harsh winter night. I imagine families curled up in front of crackling fireplaces, watching Christmas lights twinkle as they sip warm mugs of chocolat chaud , and prepare for Christmas Day festivities.
But this winter wonderland Swiss town is not so charming tonight as I shiver alone in a dark corner of the train station, staring at the arrivals and departures screen. I note that only two trains are passing through Lausanne in this last half an hour before the clock strikes midnight. One of them is a Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train—the same luxury train that Isla boarded from this exact train station only two nights ago. The other must be Samuel’s.
I head to the platform where both trains will be crossing through on opposite tracks, keeping one eye over my shoulder the whole time to make sure no one is following me.
Sirens shoot through the night just as I reach the platform. The Swiss police are about to discover the carnage waiting for them in the traffic circle just down the road from the station, but hopefully Samuel will arrive before they discover me too.
The pistol weighs heavily inside the large black coat I’m still wearing, and my frozen fingertips are ready to pull for it should the need arise.
I gaze through the blanket of snow that swirls above my head, dusting the round, glowing clock hanging above the platform. The ticking grates at my nerves, but I try to stay calm and be patient.
Round, fluffy snowflakes flitter down from the black sky, covering the tracks, inch by inch. The distant sound of a train whistle blowing sends hope into this frozen body of mine. But just as I’m peering down the tracks, glimpsing the first sign of light through the sheets of snow, a soft female voice travels through the night.
“Jillian.”
My heart pounds as I flip around and find an older woman standing before me, her shoulder-length, silvery white hair glistening in the glowing halo of snow that twirls around her.
“My name is Madeleine Morel. I’m Frédéric’s aunt and Laurent’s sister.” The woman’s sapphire eyes smile warmly at me underneath thick black lashes, the graceful lines of age on her soft pink skin revealing experience, knowledge.
Madeleine Morel —the beautiful older woman in the portrait that I’d discovered hiding in the Morels’ storage closet.
“I’m sorry if I startled you, but I have something urgent you need to see. Something that will help you find Isla,” she says.
“How did you find me here?” I ask.
“Georges, the chauffeur who dropped you off at the police station, is my twin brother.”
Suddenly that silvery gleam in her pretty blue eyes rings a bell. Georges boasted those same intriguing eyes. And the same warm demeanor.
Something isn’t adding up though.
“I read the plaque on the Morels’ wall,” I tell her. “It said you only had one brother, Laurent.”
“It is a long story, some of which I’m about to tell you right now.” She peeks warily over her shoulder. “But we don’t have much time.”
In her hands, Madeleine’s carrying an old, tattered shoe box. She lifts the lid to show me the contents. Inside are stacks of old letters along with a few black-and-white photographs.
The train whistle blows again, but the train is still a ways down the tracks as Madeline plucks the top letter from the stack, opens it up, and hands it to me.
I hold the crinkled paper underneath the dim glow of the lamp overhead. Faded French words line the yellowed page, and before I know it, I am transported to another time.
1 décembre 1937
My dearest Rosie,
The days are long and cold without you. But my love for you will never
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