Midnight Train to Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 3

  When I respond by pushing the phone farther into my bra, Samuel shakes his head at me, frustration seeping through his pores. I don’t care though. I’m not budging.

  “I’ll be sending over one of my top investigators this afternoon to question you and get any information that might help us—email correspondence from Isla, information on anyone from your past who may have wanted to hurt your sister—all of it. But right now, I need you to let me listen to that message, then get the hell out of my way so I can catch my flight and find your sister.”

  I can see that Samuel isn’t going to change his mind without a fight. I eye his suit jacket, combing my gaze down the front of his firm chest to his pants pockets. I notice a slight bulge in his left pocket, and that’s when I know what I have to do.

  Before he can calculate my next move, I grab onto his shoulders and run my fingers up to the back of his hairline, right to the spot at the nape of his neck that used to drive him wild. Then I tip my chin, trying not to inhale his intoxicating scent, and press my lips against his.

  Snowflakes cover our faces as I brush my lips over Samuel’s once, then twice more. I ignore the familiar way he tastes, the heat pulsing through my veins.

  By the third kiss, I have what I came in for.

  The keys.

  I pull away from him, hit the unlock button and run around the front of the car, climbing into the driver’s side.

  Samuel stands on the sidewalk, his feet planted to the ground, his green eyes glaring at me through the snow. He doesn’t run toward me, demanding that I get out of the car. Instead he climbs into the passenger side, runs his hand through his light brown hair, and shakes his head at me as I turn the key in the ignition and press on the gas.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Jillian Chambord. Not one bit.”

  I speed down Constitution Avenue, thankful for the lack of cars on the street and for the Escalade’s ability to plow right over the snow.

  Samuel’s hand suddenly plunges down my shirt.

  “Hey!” I say, but he’s already retrieved what he went in for—my phone.

  “Two can play at this game, Jill,” he says. His comfortable use of Jill momentarily makes me lose focus. He’s the only one who’s ever called me by that name.

  “What’s your voicemail password?” he asks.

  “1937,” I tell him as I speed right through a red light.

  “We’re not immune to the law. You might want to be a little more careful,” he says, punching in my code.

  “We don’t have time for careful,” I quip. “We’re going to Dulles Airport I assume?”

  Samuel shakes his head. “No, Reagan.”

  “But, there aren’t any international flights out of Reagan.”

  Samuel holds a finger up to shush me while he listens to Isla’s message. He turns the volume up to full blast on the phone, and listens intently. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, my knuckles turning white as I try to block out the sound of her voice traveling through the car.

  What was Isla doing on that train?

  I gaze over at Samuel as he hangs up the phone. The look in his eyes is determined, strong, hopeful. “This call came in at 6:37 P.M. yesterday, which would’ve been 12:37 A.M. France time. This confirms that the time of abduction was most likely during the stop they made in the Alps for mechanical problems. This is big, Jillian. This will help us narrow down our ground search.”

  Samuel pulls out his phone and begins texting while I focus on the snowy road ahead, swallowing the fear that consumes me at the words abduction and ground search. How can this be happening to my sister? Why haven’t I paid more attention to what was going on in her life recently? What if I could’ve saved her somehow?

  I’ve been so consumed with breaking the Senator Williams story that I…

  God, when will I stop lying to myself?

  The truth is that most days, it’s easier not to talk to my twin sister. It’s easier not to remember what happened to us and what ultimately tore us apart.

  I know Isla feels the same. Which is why I rarely hear from her anymore.

  So why did she call me so many times this week? What was she trying to tell me?

  A warm hand lands on my shoulder, breaking up my incessant string of worries. “Jillian, your passport. Do you need to stop by your apartment in Rosslyn to pick it up?”

  “How do you know I still live in Rosslyn?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Jill, just answer the question.”

  “I have it in my purse. I always carry my passport with me, just in case.”

  I decide to stop at the next red light, but I don’t look at Samuel. I don’t want to see the inquisitive, confused expression that I already know has splashed across his handsome face. It’s the way he always used to look at me…back when he would ask me questions I couldn’t answer. Questions I chose not to answer.

  The light turns green, and I floor the gas. “Why are we going to Reagan? Are any planes even going to be taking off in this weather?”

  “The Morel family—the family your sister was going to marry into—has arranged for a private jet. And yes, that plane will be taking off no matter what. I’ll be sure of it.”

  “A private jet? Are you kidding me? Who are these people?”

  “The Morels are essentially the French equivalents of the Trumps, except that they come from old money. They own a ton of real estate in Paris and all over France, and they have strong political ties too.”

  “I see…but I’m still not sure whether I understand why they would go to so much trouble to hire you to find my sister when you’re not even going to be in France for the first twenty-four hours of the search. Isn’t this a huge waste of time?”

  “The agency I work for is the best in the world, Jill. It’s made up of people like me—former special agents who’ve decided to dedicate their lives to finding missing persons. We’ve given up everything—our homes, personal lives, everything—to find these people.”

  I think about Samuel’s wife, Karine, and the coverage my paper did on her abduction and her gruesome murder, and I immediately understand. Samuel is the type of person who wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if he knew that what happened to Karine was happening to other women.

  “My two partners who are over there right now are both former CIA as well. They’ve already put a team together to question the other passengers on the train and the Morels. And I just gave the search team a green light, so trust me, no one is wasting any time.”

  “Fine. But why is this family pulling out all the stops to get you over there, Samuel? Why are you one of the leads on this case?” I swerve the car around the traffic circle, the Lincoln Memorial towering to our left, its normally crowded set of stairs completely void of tourists on this harsh winter day.

  “In the three years that I’ve worked for the agency, I’ve had the highest success rate at finding victims. I’ve given my life to this career, Jillian. To finding people like your sister. When I got the call this morning about this case and heard the names of the three women who’d disappeared, I knew I had to take this one.”

  “Because of me,” I say softly.

  Samuel nods, the silence of our past together weighing us both down.

  I charge over the Arlington Memorial Bridge, the icy Potomac River stretching underneath us. I wonder what it would feel like to jump in the water right now. To be swallowed up into the unbearable freeze. I think of Isla freezing in the snow, lost in the mountains, and for the first time since he stormed into Natalie’s office only an hour ago, I am glad it’s Samuel here by my side. I’m glad it’s Samuel who will be leading the search for my sister.

  I won’t, in a million years, admit this thought to him though.

  “So who are the other two girls that have gone missing?” I ask. “Are they connected to Isla in any way?”

  “The three girls all boarded the train from different stops, so it appears as if they were chosen at random, but there is a connection we’re investiga
ting.”

  “What is it?” I swerve left onto George Washington Parkway as the windshield wipers bat at the heavy sheets of snow falling from the sky.

  “Before I tell you this, you have to promise me you aren’t going to leak this back to your editor at The Daily,” Samuel says, his voice cold. “We’re trying to keep the story under wraps to buy us more time to find the girls. Press coverage may tip off whoever is behind this and compromise our search.” He pauses and looks away from me. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “I would never do anything to compromise the search,” I say. “And in case this is what you’re insinuating, I had nothing to do with the coverage of your wife’s story. I would never have—”

  “She’s dead,” Samuel’s voice booms through the heated car. “It doesn’t matter how those fucking vultures got ahold of the story. Karine is gone.”

  I zoom down the parkway, letting those words resonate in the air between us. Karine is already gone. I can’t let that happen to Isla too.

  “I won’t do anything to mess this up, Samuel,” I say. “You have to trust me. Now please tell me the names of the two other girls. Maybe Isla’s mentioned them at some point. Maybe I can help.”

  Samuel types something into his phone and holds up the screen for me to see.

  A photo of a young woman with curly brown hair and huge baby-blue eyes stares back at me. “Emma Brooks,” he says. “Recognize the name?”

  I shake my head. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name from Isla.”

  “She’s the nineteen-year-old daughter of the U.S. ambassador to France, George Brooks.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Which means we only have a day or two tops before every news station in France and the U.S. is covering the story.”

  “A day or two if you’re lucky,” I say. “An ambassador’s daughter was abducted from a train in the Alps. I’m sure Brooks and his family will want to go public with this soon.”

  “We’ve already advised them to keep quiet at least until the ground search is underway.”

  “So what’s the connection you need to investigate with Brooks’s daughter?”

  “We’re not sure if Isla and Emma ever met, but we do know that the Brooks family is friends with the Morel family.”

  “Two high-profile families with tons of money,” I say, thinking out loud.

  “Exactly. We wouldn’t be surprised if we receive a message from the kidnappers asking for millions in ransom in exchange for the two girls.”

  My foot surges against the gas pedal as I power toward the airport exit ramp. “And what about the third girl? Is she from some other powerhouse French family?”

  Samuel punches at the keys on his phone again and produces another photo—this one of a girl with long, silky black hair and striking, almond-shaped eyes. “Francesca Rossi. Italian, twenty-six-years-old. From a moderately wealthy family. No obvious connection to either the Brooks family or the Morel family. She boarded the train in Venice and was sleeping in the compartment right next to your sister.”

  “Maybe she saw something she shouldn’t have, and they took her too. She’s probably just collateral damage to the sick bastard who did this.”

  “To get all three of those girls off the train in the middle of the night without a big commotion, we believe there were at least two, if not three, kidnappers involved.”

  My stomach curls as I fly down the exit ramp for Washington Reagan Airport.

  “Head around this way.” Samuel points down a service road that circles the airport. “The plane is waiting for us there.”

  “Is it going to be a huge problem that the Morel family didn’t even know I existed until today, and now I’m boarding their private jet with you?”

  “Even if it were a problem, would that stop you?”

  Rage soars through my chest as I wonder what the men who took my sister are doing to her right now.

  “Nothing would stop me from getting on that plane,” I say. “Nothing.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The small, fancy jet hums loudly as Samuel and I buckle our seatbelts.

  “I need my phone back,” I tell him. “I have to make an important call before we take off.”

  Samuel reaches into his pocket and produces my iPhone. “If you’re calling work, please tell your editor to keep her mouth shut.”

  “I’ll do my best. But if she breaks this story tomorrow, remember that you’re the one who blabbed about my sister’s disappearance right in front of her.”

  “I only did that because you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, and I knew you wouldn’t leave that office with me unless I told you what was really going on.”

  Samuel is right, but instead of giving him that satisfaction, I roll my eyes and snatch the phone from his hand. Aiming the screen toward the window so he can’t see, I ignore the three missed calls from my boss and quickly type a text to my colleague, Liz Martinez.

  Plan B is in effect. You know where to find my files. Sister Three is scheduled to give a statement at 3 P.M. I’ll tell her to look for you. You are the only other one she trusts. Make sure Officer Reynolds is on standby to take her statement and put her in protection immediately. I’ll clue Natalie in on your involvement, and I’ll check in with you in eight hours. This is your story now, Liz. Don’t let me down.

  Then I type a quick message to Natalie.

  Taking immediate leave for family emergency. Please keep quiet what you heard in the office today. I’ve already given you your next huge story, so leave my family alone. I lied about one other thing: Liz Martinez is on the Williams story with me. She’ll be taking over in my absence. Liz has my report, and all we need is Sister Number Three’s statement on the record. Story must go to press tonight. You won’t regret it.

  No more than thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes with Natalie’s response.

  The girl better show or this story is over, Chambord. And so is your career.

  I can only attribute Natalie’s lack of concern for my family emergency and her quick willingness to fire me to the fact that she hates liars with a passion. But in this moment, as a violent gust of wind rattles our tiny, private jet, I am certain that I hate my lying self enough for the two of us.

  Pushing Natalie’s threat to the back of my mind, I dial the contact number I have for Sister Number Three, praying I can reach her.

  After the fifth ring, a young male voice answers.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “This is Jillian, Scarlet’s friend. She there?” I try my best to sound young and nonthreatening, but there’s no telling if he’ll buy it.

  The kid doesn’t respond, but a rustling sound on the other line gives me hope that he’s going to put her on the phone.

  A few more moments pass, then suddenly I hear that same male voice yelling in the background. I can’t make out what he’s saying over the loud humming of the plane, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.

  Finally, the yelling stops and the phone scratches again.

  “Jillian?” It’s Scarlet. The terror still hasn’t left her voice.

  “Yes, Scarlet. It’s me. I just wanted to let you know that my colleague Liz is going to meet you there today at three o’clock. She’s the one you met the other night, the one who is just like me. Who understands.”

  “Will you be there too?” she whispers.

  “I have a family emergency. Something with my own sister…the one I told you about. But Liz will have the police waiting to take you into protection, and everything is going to go exactly the way I promised you, Scarlet. You have nothing to worry about, okay?”

  Scarlet doesn’t respond. Instead, her muffled cries travel through the line.

  “Scarlet, listen, I know you’re scared. But you can trust me. I wasn’t lying when I told you that I completely understand what you’ve been through. Liz does too. We want to take him down just as much as you do. You have to promise me that you’ll be there. P
romise me, Scarlet.”

  The seventeen-year-old girl who I’ve worked so hard to save whimpers into the phone. “You’re lucky you still have a sister, Jillian,” she whispers. “You’re so lucky.”

  Then she hangs up. She hangs up the phone.

  I close my eyes and rest my forehead in my palm.

  Please, God, let her show up today. Please.

  I toss my phone into the cushy leather seat that faces me, thinking of Scarlet sitting in that dilapidated house in Anacostia, with that pimp boyfriend controlling her every move.

  Of all days for me to be leaving the country.

  I smack the side of my fist against the thick airplane window, then close my eyes once more.

  “What’s going on?” Samuel asks.

  Keeping my eyes squeezed shut, I shake my head. Samuel can’t fix this, and neither can I. All I can do is hope that Scarlet has the courage to show up today. Otherwise, she doesn’t stand a chance. And the disgusting creep who has stolen her innocence will go free. Again.

  “We have a long plane ride ahead of us, Jill. You’re going to have to answer my questions,” Samuel says.

  Samuel’s fingers tapping loudly on his laptop keyboard make me wish I’d thought to grab my computer before jetting out of the office like a madwoman. How would I keep myself from going insane with worry, from drowning in a murky pool of my own guilt, sitting next to my ex-boyfriend while he grills me for eight hours?

  “Shouldn’t you be putting your computer away? We’re about to take off,” I snap.

  By the way Samuel’s jaw tightens as his eyes skim the computer screen, I can tell he isn’t in the mood for my bossy tone. He mumbles something under his breath, but the buzzing plane engine drowns out his words.

  “What is it? Did you learn something that could help us find Isla?” I’m nearly shouting now as the jet begins its voyage down the snow-covered runway. I’m not even sure how the pilot received authorization to take off in such dreadful weather conditions, but I don’t care. A bumpy plane ride is the least of my worries right now.