Midnight Train to Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 4

  Samuel narrows his eyes as he continues to comb the computer screen.

  “What is it?” I ask. “Did the press already find out?”

  He shakes his head, finally lifting his intense green gaze to mine.

  “Why did you choose 1937 as your voicemail passcode?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just answer the question, Jill,” Samuel says, his green eyes boring into me.

  I fiddle with the hem of my skirt, tearing my gaze from Samuel’s. “It’s the time of Isla’s birth. She was born at 9:37A.M., exactly thirty-seven minutes after me, on the first of—”

  “January,” Samuel finishes for me. He shakes his head, returning his gaze to the computer. “The number must be a coincidence then.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask as a chill works its way down my spine.

  “I just received an email from one of the other investigators at the agency. It looks like we may be dealing with a copycat crime. Seventy-five years ago, in 1937, three young women disappeared from an Orient Express train as it traveled through the Alps en route to Paris. The train stopped just after midnight because of a snow drift on the tracks, and when it pulled into Gare de l’Est in Paris the next morning, all three of the girls were missing from their sleeping compartments, their luggage still left on the train.”

  Goosebumps prickle the back of my neck as I clutch onto my seat. “But that was seventy-five years ago. It couldn’t have anything to do with what’s happened to Isla. Could it?”

  Samuel doesn’t answer as he continues reading the email. Suddenly, the color drains from his face and he snaps the computer shut. “My team is looking into it. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “What happened to the three girls, Samuel? Did they find them?”

  Samuel swallows as the plane surges faster down the runway. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I only needed to know why you’d chosen 1937. Like I said, my team will follow up on this.”

  I snatch Samuel’s laptop from his hands. “Tell me what happened to the other girls, or I’ll look it up myself.”

  “I thought you would’ve become less fiery as you neared thirty, but clearly I was wrong,” he says. “One of the girls, a young American socialite named Rosie Delaney, was never found. The other two…” Samuel trails off, breaking our eye contact to glance at the flurry of snow swirling outside the tiny plane windows.

  “What happened to them? Tell me,” I demand through gritted teeth.

  Samuel turns back to me, his deadpan stare instantly making me regret my quest for the truth.

  “They were murdered in the Alps,” he says. “The killer was never found.”

  The plane lifts off, hurling us through the stark white skies, but all I can see is bloodstained snow and Isla’s panicked violet eyes, pleading with me to save her.

  EPISODE 2

  CHAPTER 5

  December 24, 2012

  Évian-les-Bains, France

  “You didn’t tell me the Morel family lives in a castle,” I say to Samuel as the black town car we’re riding in turns down a long, winding driveway.

  An expansive, snow-covered lawn sparkles as beams of early afternoon sunlight peak through the shield of gray clouds overhead. The lawn leads to a three-story mansion complete with imposing, spiral towers and wrought-iron balconies that wrap around each of the second-floor windows.

  “This is only their vacation estate,” Samuel says as he types the hundredth message he’s sent on his phone since we stepped off the plane in Geneva an hour ago. “The Morels own small châteaux like this all over France.”

  The driveway circles a fountain with an eerie sculpture of a naked woman looming at the top. Icicles form a crown around her head, and her cold, emotionless eyes cast a creepy glance right at us.

  As we drive closer, it’s not the spectacular view of the crystal blue lake just behind the mansion that takes my breath away.

  It’s the lineup of news vans, TV cameras, and reporter’s microphones aimed at the front door.

  “What the…” Samuel mumbles, rolling down his window.

  A gush of cool, fresh air wafts into the heated car, helping, only momentarily, to calm my nauseated stomach. “How did this happen already?” I ask. “I thought you told all three of the families to keep their mouths shut so the kidnappers wouldn’t be tipped off about where you’re searching.”

  “I did,” Samuel says as the town car parks behind one of the news vans. “But in my experience with high-profile families like these, they usually decide to take matters into their own hands at one point or another. And frankly, it’s a pain in my ass.”

  I place my hand on the car door, not in any way ready to face the mob of reporters or the family that Isla never told me about, but knowing that I have no other choice than to move forward. To do everything I can to find my sister.

  But Samuel’s firm hand on my arm stops me.

  “My team has already alerted the Morels of your arrival, so they shouldn’t be surprised. That doesn’t mean they’ll be welcoming though. Let’s not forget that they didn’t even know you existed until yesterday morning, and they’ve known Isla for over six months.”

  I glance at his hand, still resting on my arm and push back the memories of those same strong hands that have invaded my dreams every night for the past six years.

  “Let’s not forget that I’ve known Isla for twenty-eight years.” I pull my arm from his grasp. “I’m not too worried about the Morels’ delicate feelings right now. I just want to find my sister.”

  Samuel reaches inside his breast pocket and hands me his business card. “My number, in case you need anything while you’re here. I’m going to ask the Morels a few more questions, then I’ll be heading off to the search site. I brought you here like you asked, Jill, but you need to promise me you’ll stay put.”

  I gaze at the snow-dusted pines climbing up the sides of the château and at the icy lake shimmering in the background, and again I think of Isla. I want to go with Samuel. I don’t want to be trapped in this castle with some random family who thinks they know my sister.

  Every family she’s stormed her way into these past several years has believed, naively, that they know my sweet, beautiful, charming sister.

  But they’ve all been wrong…and the Morels are wrong too.

  “Jillian,” Samuel says sternly. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not an option. You’ll stay here.”

  He doesn’t wait for the protest he surely knows is coming. Instead, he climbs out of the car and walks purposefully toward the mass of cameras and microphones clamoring toward the front door.

  Before I follow him, I lean forward and address the driver.

  “Excusez-moi, Monsieur. Are you a regular driver for the Morel family?” I ask in French.

  “No, just an airport car service, Mademoiselle,” he responds.

  “Do you have a business card?”

  “Mais, bien sûr.” He plucks a card from the center console and hands it to me.

  “Merci bien, Monsieur. You may be hearing from me later.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Mademoiselle.”

  Just as I’m opening the door, the driver asks me one more question.

  “I must ask, Mademoiselle, how did you learn to speak French with such a perfect accent?”

  I hesitate, not wanting to acknowledge her existence. But the exhaustion from all the years of lying urges me to let my guard down for one brief second. I don’t know this man. It doesn’t matter if I tell the truth just this once.

  “My mother was French,” I tell the driver. I don’t give him a chance to ask any more questions as I emerge into the crisp Alpine air. I discreetly tuck his card into the pocket of my suit jacket, smooth down my wrinkled white blouse and gray pencil skirt, then pace toward the mob.

  Just as I reach the back of the press lineup, large cameras begin clicking furiously, and microphones thrust higher into the air.


  They’re not facing me though. They couldn’t care less about Isla’s only sister who has left her reporting career hanging in the balance to fly across an ocean with a man she’d planned on never seeing again, all in the dire hope to find her other half…her twin sister.

  No, it’s not me they want. It’s the strikingly handsome French man who has just walked out the front door of the château.

  “Monsieur Morel, is it true that your girlfriend, Isla Chambord, has been abducted from the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express Train?” a female reporter shouts in French.

  “Any clues as to Mademoiselle Chambord’s whereabouts?”

  “Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

  “Are they asking for a large ransom for Mademoiselle Chambord and Mademoiselle Brooks’s return?”

  “What about the Italian girl?”

  “Is there any hope of finding the girls alive?”

  Frédéric Morel doesn’t seem fazed by the questions being hurled at him. He poses confidently at the top of the steps, his shoulders pushed back and his slick gray suit the sign of a man who is used to standing in the limelight.

  He doesn’t appear tired or weary or fearful, the way I would expect someone who has lost the love of his life to look. Instead, he holds up a hand to quiet the hungry reporters and gazes calmly and pointedly into one of the cameras.

  “On the night of December 22, my fiancée, Isla Chambord, was abducted from the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train traveling through Lausanne, on the way to Paris,” he says in French. “Two other young women were taken from the same train as well. I will allow their families to comment on their disappearance, but I would like to issue a warning to whomever has taken these innocent women.”

  Suddenly his calm evaporates, and a fierce anger flashes through Frédéric’s dark, narrowed eyes.

  Even from my vantage point at the edge of the crowd, I can feel his fury.

  “We will not stop until we find you,” he growls. “You will not get away with this. And if you hurt Isla, I will personally make sure that you suffer for the rest of your miserable life. ”

  Commotion surges through the crowd as the reporters revel in the drama. More shouts in French emanate from the press.

  “Monsieur Morel, what was your fiancée doing on that train alone?”

  “Why weren’t you with her?”

  “Wasn’t December 22 the night of the annual Morel Holiday Gala? Why did Isla leave the party?”

  “Does Isla have any family? Where are they?”

  “We are Isla’s family,” Frédéric answers coolly. “And we’ll do anything to make sure she comes home safely. In fact, we’re offering a reward of two million euros to anyone who has valid information regarding the whereabouts of Isla Chambord.”

  I stand, frozen in place, as I watch Samuel push past the reporters and meet Frédéric at the top of the stairs. Samuel whispers something into Frédéric’s ear, then scans the crowd. As soon as he sees me, he motions for me to come up.

  “Monsieur Morel is finished with his statement now,” Samuel announces in French, his thick accent sweet to my ear. “We assure you that a thorough search for the three women is underway, and we ask that you leave the Morel property immediately.”

  I push through the crowd, clenching my fists as I think about Frédéric’s words—We are Isla’s family.

  He may have insane amounts of money to throw around in her name, but that doesn’t mean he knows anything about who Isla really is.

  “I am Isla’s family,” I whisper under my breath as I climb the ivory-colored château steps.

  And I will find her.

  Inside the Morels’ vacation home, Frédéric storms underneath the foyer’s high ceilings and into an elegant, museum-like living room, or le salon, as my French monster of a mother would’ve so eloquently called it.

  A petite woman with chin-length, dyed-blond hair is standing next to a shiny grand piano, arms crossed. She charges toward Frédéric. “What were you thinking?” she says in French, the fire in her voice matching that of Frédéric’s violent warning outside. “The investigators specifically told us not to speak to the press yet. Do you want to get your fiancée killed?”

  Samuel clears his throat as we enter the fancy living room, and the Morel woman and her son lift their troubled gazes to us.

  “Frédéric, Hélène, I’m Investigator Samuel Kelly. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  “Of course,” Frédéric answers in English, his accent impeccable. “This is her?” he nods toward me.

  “Yes, this is Jillian Chambord, Isla’s twin sister.”

  The room goes unnervingly silent as Frédéric and his mother examine me, no doubt wondering where this mysterious girl came from and why Isla neglected to mention me. I stare back at them and wonder the same thing—why my sister omitted the minor detail that she was in a serious relationship with a French real estate mogul and that he’d proposed.

  Samuel’s deep voice cuts through the tension. “I have to get to the search site, but I’d like to go over the timeline of last night with you one more time. Can we have a seat in here?”

  “Of course,” Madame Morel says with a tired smile, keeping her intense eyes glued to me all the while. “Please, come in.”

  Frédéric paces impatiently past the spectacular floor-to-ceiling windows, clearly not in the mood to have a seat. “We’ve already gone over these questions with the other investigators,” he spits in French. “And your people haven’t told me anything, they haven’t found anything, and they’re not doing anything!” He slams his fist on the piano, startling his mother to tears. “I hired you because I was told you’re the best, and instead of doing your job, you bring this woman here—some estranged sister who Isla clearly chose to cut out of her life.”

  And you are clearly assuming that I can’t understand your French tantrum, Rich Boy, I think to myself as I dig my nails into the Morels’ pristine white couch. Didn’t Isla at least tell her fiancé that she spoke fluent French? Had she hidden that from him too?

  Before I can fight back, Samuel stands and faces Frédéric head on. “Isla never cut Jillian out of her life. She chose not to tell you she had a sister, but we’re not here today to figure out why your own fiancée didn’t feel she could be honest with you about her past. We’re here to find Isla. And since you’ve already compromised our investigation by taking this story to the press without our authorization, I suggest you calm down, start cooperating, and let me do my job, so I can go where I’m needed and find your fiancée.”

  Hope courses through my body as I watch Samuel’s broad shoulders, his tight jaw, his dark five o’clock shadow. He is a man on a mission, a man who will stop at nothing to find what he’s looking for. And he won’t let anyone, even the wealthy Morel family, get in his way.

  I realize that in the six years since I’d last seen Samuel, since that wintry day when I left him, I’ve never met another man quite like him.

  And in this moment, as he refuses to break his stance, I am certain I never will.

  “I will not sit here and do nothing while some monster has taken the woman I love,” Frédéric says. “Now ask me your questions, then get the hell out of here and find her.”

  Frédéric’s mother wipes a tear from her eye, then places a shaky hand on her son’s shoulder. “Don’t make this worse than it already is, chéri. We hired Monsieur Kelly to help us, and that’s what he’s trying to do. Now, sit down.”

  Samuel and I sit opposite Frédéric and Hélène, where we can see the icy blue waters of Lake Geneva sparkling just outside the massive windows to our left. I can’t believe Isla was staying at this unbelievable estate. Besides the fact that her French fiancé seems to be a bit of a spoiled brat—handsome, but spoiled all the same—what on earth would’ve possessed her to leave?

  “I’m going to ask the questions in English so that we can all understand,” Samuel says before taking out his notepad and pen.

  Samuel must be forgetting that I s
peak French too. I almost correct him, but then I remember that Isla obviously never told the Morels that her mother was of French origin. And I wasn’t about to explain the morbid story of our past to these strangers.

  “The night of Isla’s disappearance, you held the annual Morel Holiday Gala at this property, correct?” Samuel asks Frédéric and his mother, who is looking more distraught by the second.

  “That’s correct.” By the obstinate look on Frédéric’s chiseled face, I can tell he isn’t used to answering other people’s questions…and I can also tell he doesn’t like it one bit.

  “How long has this party been a tradition in your family?” Samuel asks.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Frédéric snaps.

  Hélène places a jewel-studded hand on her son’s thigh, then answers the question, her voice quivering all the while. “The Morel family has been holding this holiday celebration for over seventy-five years now, at this exact same residence. Some of the most famous dignitaries, politicians, and businessmen in history have been in attendance. It’s quite the event, Detective.”

  “I see,” Samuel notes. “Before the party, did Isla mention to either of you or to any other guests, her plans to take the Orient Express train overnight to Paris?”

  Frédéric’s face grows somber. “No, she didn’t.”

  “I understand you proposed to Isla during the party,” Samuel says. “How did she react?”

  “Well, of course she said yes,” Frédéric huffs.

  “Yes, we know she accepted your proposal, Monsieur Morel, but how did she react? Did she seem genuinely happy?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” Frédéric says, scrunching his forehead. “Isla and I were in love. Of course she was happy with my proposal.”

  Frédéric’s flagrant show of confidence is maddening. I want to slap him across his smug face. For the past several years that Isla has been traveling around Europe, she has always gone for those rich, conceited, stuffy types. Unfortunately, I never could cure her of that problem.

  “I don’t mean any disrespect, Monsieur Morel,” Samuel continues, “but it’s no secret that Isla was hiding something from you. Something that would make her decide to slip out of this party without telling a soul, take the last ferry all the way across Lake Geneva into Switzerland, and climb on a midnight train to Paris. Do you have any idea, any idea at all, what Isla was hiding from you and your family?”