Midnight Train to Paris (15 page)

“I assume your mom found out about Russell and Isla,” Samuel
says quietly. “How?”

“It was Parker Williams.” I dig my nails into the soft rug
beneath me as I try to contain my hatred for that man. “He noticed that Isla
had become more comfortable in bed with him. ‘More experienced and less afraid’
were his words I believe. He told my
mother this, and she knew immediately that she’d lost Russell to Isla and that
Isla must’ve been hiding the money from her. So one day, our mother said she
was leaving for the afternoon, but she hid in her car around the corner and
waited. As expected, Russell pulled up within the hour. I was at school,
working on the paper, and for some reason, I just knew to come home. I felt it…
I knew Isla was in danger. So I ran home as fast as I could, but I was too
late. My mother had already shot Russell in the head, and she was about to
shoot Isla when I ran into the room.” I pause, feeling my breath leave me as my
mind recreates the same vivid, horrific scene I only ever see in nightmares.

“I took a vase from
the kitchen and smashed it over the back of her head. She dropped the gun, and
I managed to grab it before she got to me. And then, I shot my own mother in
the knee to stop her from doing any more damage.”

I try not to blink, knowing that the memory of my mother’s
blood will be waiting for me as soon as I do.

“And you were only thirteen?” Samuel says, the look in his
eyes incredulous.

 “Yes, but after that
day, both Isla and I felt like we were forty. Our innocence was gone forever…and
Isla’s had been gone for a lot longer. I just didn’t know it. As we were
waiting for the police to arrive, I kept the gun aimed at my mother while Isla
cleaned herself up and put her clothes back on. She begged me never to tell a
soul what she’d been doing. She didn’t want this sickening past chasing her
around her whole life. Keeping her secret was the least I could do considering
what had happened to her…when all along I’d been oblivious. Lost in my own
little world at the school paper. I’ve felt guilty for years. I don’t know if
I’ll ever shake this guilt.”

Samuel tilts my chin up so our eyes meet. “It wasn’t your
fault, Jill. You know that, don’t you?”

I nod, pretending to know. But that familiar stab of regret—regret
over something I cannot change—seizes my chest, making it difficult for me to
breathe.

“After our mother was sentenced to life in prison for the
murder of Russell Hughes, Isla and I were shuffled from foster home to foster
home, but I kept my word. I never told a soul about what she’d done…what
she’d been forced to do at the hands of the woman who was supposed to love us
more than anyone in the world.”

“So in your mother’s hearing, you didn’t bring up Parker
Williams's name?” Samuel asks.

“No, Isla made me swear not to say a word. She couldn’t bear
the thought of having our future caretakers know what she’d been doing. She was
so young. You can only imagine the shame, the embarrassment of having something
like this follow you around your whole life. Before the police arrived that
day, Isla even took the gun out of my hands, aimed it at my mother, and made
her swear never to tell the courts what had gone on between Isla, Williams, and
Hughes. She forced my mom to testify that
she’d
been the one having sex with Russell Hughes before she shot him, which
explains why he was naked. That’s the reason you’ll never find the entire truth
in any of the court records.”

Samuel tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and runs his
thumb along my cheek, being careful not to touch any of my cuts and bruises.
“Jill, I can’t believe you lived through all of this. That you survived. That
you’re such an amazing, beautiful person. How have you held this in all these
years?”

“It was for Isla. Always for Isla. Because for her, it was so
much worse.”

Samuel kisses me on the forehead, silencing the cry that
threatens to escape my lips. “It was unimaginable for Isla. But it was just as
bad for you. You’re brave, Jillian. The bravest woman I’ve ever known.” He
wraps his arms around me and kisses me on the lips before squaring his gaze in
front of mine. “I understand why you kept this a secret all those years. You’re
loyal, and Isla is lucky to have you as a sister.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. “I wanted to tell you, but I
don’t think I was ready to tell anyone until now. Until you. It was a
nightmare, all of it. Not exactly the kind of thing you want to relive over and
over, you know?”

Samuel nods, the creases around his eyes and the grim
expression on his face telling me that he knows more than anyone. Karine’s
murder was as gruesome as they get. He’s lived through a nightmare too.

Yet here we both are—survivors.

A new fire blazes in Samuel’s eyes as he squeezes my hand. “I
know that before Isla’s disappearance, you were working on the story that
exposed Senator’s Williams's involvement in a child prostitution ring and in
the murder of those two sisters.” Samuel pauses as he gazes out the snowy
window. “And you know what? I don’t think you were the only one who was putting
it all on the line to watch that bastard burn.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My team was already investigating Williams's connection to
the Morel family when you sent me the photograph of the three of them at the
charity gala. And with what you just told me about his connection to Isla, I
think I know what might’ve happened.”

“You do?”

The certainty in Samuel’s strong profile and the way he holds
himself makes me believe him even before he says a word.

“I don’t think it was a coincidence that your sister was
dating Frédéric Morel and that his family
happens
to be close with Senator Williams.”

“Are you saying that Isla started dating Frédéric
because
of his family’s connection to
Williams?”

Samuel nods. “From what you just described to me, Isla sounds
like a smart woman. Troubled, but smart. Someone who knows how to get what she
wants.”

“That’s my sister.”

“I believe Isla singled out Frédéric Morel so that she would
cross paths with Williams again.”

“Okay, you’re losing me here. Why in the hell would she want
to cross paths with Williams again?” I say.

“To blackmail him.”

Suddenly Isla’s voicemail comes rushing back to me. She’d
sounded excited…and
devious
.
“Before Isla was taken on the train, in her message to me, she said—”

“
You’re not going to
believe what I’ve done this time
,” Samuel finishes for me. “And she
laughed, which shows that she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t know she had any reason
to be. I believe Isla threatened to go to the police or to the press, or even
just to the senator’s family, with the story of how he exploited her as a young
girl…
unless
he resigned.”

“If you’re right, then Isla blackmailing Williams was the
real
reason he resigned so suddenly—from
a press conference in France no less—
right
after
he’d seen Isla at that charity ball with the Morels. The insane part
is that the story I’d been working on for the past two weeks came to a head
literally on the exact same day, making Williams wanted for murder in the
States. Which is why he’s now on the run.”

“Just like you, Isla wanted that man to lose everything,”
Samuel says. “And she couldn’t move on with her life until it was done.”

I think about the fact that Isla and I share the same blood,
the same horrid past, and the same contempt for Parker Williams. If Isla had found
out that Williams had a vacation home in France and traveled in the same
circles as her, it made sense that she would’ve wanted him gone. That she
would’ve wanted him to lose everything, to see him unravel—the way we both did
when we were only children.

“But that still doesn’t explain Senator Williams's
involvement in Isla’s abduction,” I say. “Obviously, he had motive if she was
blackmailing him, but if he was planning to shut her up by abducting her, why
would he follow through with the resignation?”

Samuel shoots a quick glance at the deserted cabin we are
nestled inside. “Judging by our surroundings, we know there’s
a lot
more to these abductions than the
connection Williams has to your sister. But I do believe he was involved in
some way. It’s just too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

“Based on what I found out from Frances and Rosie earlier, it
sounds like Rosie’s ex-fiancé, Alexandre Morel, and his father, Henri, could be
the culprits in the 1937 version of this crime. Frances told me she was having
an affair with Henri, and that
he
was
the one who gave her the ticket to the Orient Express.”

“After what she said on the train, I figured Frances was
sleeping with one of the Morel men,” Samuel says.

“And Rosie was certain Alexandre was behind the abduction.
Jacques—her true love and
my
grandfather—sent
her the Orient Express ticket in early December, and she’s been staying at the
Morel Château for the entire month with her family, so she hid the ticket
inside the box where she keeps Jacques’s letters.”

“So Alexandre easily could’ve snooped around and found out
that Rosie was planning to leave him for another man,” Samuel says.

“Exactly. And if he happened to find out she was pregnant
with that man’s child—or
children
—he
would have even more motive to avenge his hurt pride.”

“So you believe that Henri and Alexandre hired men to storm
the train and take Rosie and Frances?” Samuel asks.

“Yes. And as for me, I think I was in the wrong place at the
wrong time.”

Samuel runs his hand along his chin, lost in thought. “You
may just be right. And perhaps Frédéric and his father, Laurent, are working
together in the same way in Isla’s case…with some involvement from Williams.
All to save the family’s reputation. To take care of any woman who might
tarnish the family name or hurt their massive egos.”

“Yeah, I don’t imagine that the Morels would want it going
public that Frédéric’s fiancée fell in love with a Parisian artist, got
pregnant with his baby,
and
that she
was sexually abused as a child by one of their longtime political friends.”

“No, I don’t imagine they would,” Samuel says.

“The question we have to answer now,” I say, “is where
they’re taking the girls, and what they’re planning to do with them once they
get there.”

“We’ll take a look at the map in a little bit, but first we
need to find you some food and water. You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine, Samuel.”

He raises a brow, then leans into me and brushes his lips
over mine. “I know it’s not in your nature to let anyone take care of you. But
as long as I’m around, you’re going to have to get used to it.”

After his next spine-tingling kiss, I lean back against the
couch and smile at him. “Okay. Food, water, and eventually sleep do sound
amazing.”

He pulls the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Stay here.
I’ll go see what I can dig up in the kitchen.”

As I watch Samuel slip back into his black tux pants and walk
shirtless through the dark cabin, I am thankful that if I have to go through
this insane nightmare to find Isla, at least I have Samuel by my side.

The fire crackling beside me lulls me to sleep. I’m not sure
how long I’ve dozed off before Samuel returns with a glass of water and a box
of shortbread. A troubled look passes through his eyes as he sits down next to
me. “This was all I could find. The cupboards were pretty bare.”

“This is fine, Samuel. Thank you. But is something else the
matter?”

Samuel nods slowly, not hiding the grim expression on his
face. “Yes, there’s something you need to see.”

Before
Samuel will show me his discovery, he insists that I drink the entire glass of
water and eat a few cookies. Then he helps me put on his own shirt and wraps
the blanket back around my shoulders.

“I tried all of the lamps, but
nothing’s working in the storm,” Samuel says as he lights a candle, then ushers
me out of the living room and down a dark, chilly hallway.

When we reach the door at the end of
the long corridor, Samuel pauses. “This may just be a coincidence, but after
this insane trip, I don’t think I believe in coincidences anymore.”

Samuel hands me the candle, then
opens the creaky door. The minute I take a step into the small room, I feel the
unmistakable presence of my sister. I smell her perfume. But most of all, I
feel her desperation.

I swirl around, moving the candle in all directions, positive
my gaze will lock on her striking violet eyes and her long, silky chestnut
waves.

But what I find in Isla’s place sends chills snaking up my
arms.

“It’s a baby’s room,” I whisper. “A baby girl.”

An antique white crib sits in the corner, a pale pink sheet
stretching over its tiny mattress. The candle flickers as I move it around the
perimeter of the room, revealing a closet stocked full of frilly baby clothes.
There are tiny pink dresses, white lace-trimmed socks, teeny black-and-white
booties, and even sets of hand-knitted hats and mittens.

Samuel places a hand on the small of my back and gestures for
me to move the candle toward the wall over the crib.

A string of carved wooden letters painted in pastel pink
hangs on the nursery wall. I move the flame past each letter, until I can read
the entire name.

“
Madeleine
,” I
whisper. “Rosie’s daughter, Madeleine. But I don’t understand. They’ve already
named her? They must be planning to bring her here once Rosie gives birth.”

“How do the Morels already know Rosie’s having a girl
though?” Samuel asks. “Rosie wasn’t even showing. They couldn’t possibly know
the sex of the baby.”

“Maybe they just really want a baby girl,” I say. “But would
Henri and Alexandre Morel really decorate a pink room for the baby girl they
hope
Rosie is going to have? If they’re
planning to take her baby, wouldn’t they want a boy to be the heir to their
empire and keep their family name alive?”

“This room
is
not
the work of a man,” Samuel agrees.
“Which means that we still don’t know the whole story.”

Samuel’s words make me think of my mysterious meetings with
Georges, the chauffeur, and his twin sister, Madeleine Morel.

“I forgot to tell you earlier, I—or
we
—met Madeleine’s twin brother, Georges.”

“What are you talking about?” Samuel asks.

As I turn to face Samuel, I wonder why I still feel as if my
sister is somewhere in this creepy baby room. I know that is impossible…but
then again, after our mysterious train voyage back in time to 1937, what do I
know?

“The driver who took us from the Geneva airport to the Morel Château,
and who I called earlier tonight to drive me to the ferry—
he
was Rosie’s other child, Madeleine’s twin brother. But from what
Madeleine told me at the train station, the twins never met their real mother,
and they were separated at birth. Madeleine was raised to believe she was a
Morel, and Georges was given up for adoption. They only just found each other a
year ago, and they’ve been trying to put the pieces together. It can’t be a
coincidence that I met them both right before we landed ourselves here.”

Samuel shakes his head, confusion sweeping through those big
green eyes of his. “No, it can’t be.”

“And before Georges left me, he said something strange. He
said ‘The answer to the mystery is not always as obvious as you may think.’
Madeleine seemed to know more than she was letting on as well. She seemed to
think we were being watched.” I glance around the eerie baby room once more,
thinking of those stately paintings I found of the Morel women—the ones that
lined the wall—Agnès, Thérèse, and Hélène. Could they have something to do with
this?

Most of all, I remember the paintings that were hidden in a
storage room, draped underneath a dusty white sheet and banned from the Morel
women’s wall of fame. Madeleine and Isla were among those that had been cast
aside, along with a third painting that had been slashed, torn to shreds. I
could still see traces of the images that remained—those dark brown curls and that
sweet dimple.

Now I knew it was Rosie’s dimple and those were Rosie’s
curls.

The Morels must have destroyed her painting after she
betrayed Alexandre.

A bitter gust of air squeezes in through the cracks in the windowpanes
and whips around Samuel and me. “I don’t think the Morel men are the only ones
behind this. This nursery—this hope for a baby girl—a woman did this,” I say.

Before Samuel can respond, another freezing draft wafts into
the room, bringing to life the baby mobile dangling above the crib.

A slow, creepy lullaby travels through the cold air in the
nursery while the mobile spins, gaining momentum. I vaguely feel Samuel squeeze
my hand, but Isla’s presence, the memory of her voice, the vision of her
pleading violet gaze puts me in a trance. The mobile spins faster, and suddenly
I feel the emerald ring tingling, tightening, and squeezing my left ring finger
so hard I want to scream from the pain.

But when I open my mouth, there is no sound. No voice. Just
like in my nightmares. Before I can figure out what is happening to me, I feel
Isla pulling me to her.

“
Jillian, please come.
You’re the only one who can save me
.”

Isla’s thirteen-year-old voice weaves into her adult cries,
and I am immediately drawn to her, to my beautiful, innocent twin sister. The
one I could never truly save.

I will save her this time, though.

I blink my eyes, and all I see is the baby mobile which
twirls in violent, rapid circles before finally, it cracks and falls from the
ceiling, crashing into the crib.

The lullaby keeps playing, squeaking out its slow, eerie
tune. This is all I hear as I leave Samuel’s side and go to my sister.

“I’m coming for you,
Isla. I’m coming.”

A
string of vivid scenes flash before me in full, vibrant color, like a movie
reel rolling in slow motion. I have no recollection of what was going on before
I arrived here—wherever here is—but I don’t care, because there, below me, is
Isla posing on a plush red sofa.

Her seductive violet gaze sparkles as she looks into the eyes
of the man who sits on a stool opposite her, swiping his brush over a large
canvas in short, delicate strokes.

A strapless ivory dress hugs her
beautiful curves and her thin waist, and waves of her shimmering chestnut hair
fall effortlessly over her bare, dainty shoulders.

With my full, 360-degree view of the
room, I see that in between each brush stroke, the painter pauses to study my
sister—but his version of “studying” is more of a silent flirtation. He is
clearly mesmerized by her. As am I.

In Christophe’s sultry dark eyes and
in this lustrous painting he is creating, I know that he is the first man to
ever truly
see
my sister. The
damaged, sweet beauty of Isla is reflected in each bold brush stroke.

And slowly, the painting I found hidden in the Morels’
storage closet comes to life.

Isla blinks her long lashes at
Christophe, and suddenly, there it is. The moment where she knows she has found
him. The one who sees past her stunning, flawless exterior. The one who will
love her anyway.

They communicate without words, but
I can hear my sister. She is afraid to bare her truth. But the gentleness in
Christophe’s gaze, the truth in his portrait of her, tells her she will be safe
with him.

Better than safe—she can be herself.
Finally.

In an instant, the vibe in the room changes. Goose bumps
prickle my neck. There, hovering in the doorway is Frédéric, his imposing,
possessive gaze full of rage and jealousy. He wants Isla all to himself, but he
isn’t stupid. He knows—he
sees
—that
will never happen.

And so it begins. Isla’s beauty drives
yet another man to total madness. It started when we were only thirteen, and it
has never ended.

At once, the scene before me changes
in a flash.

Now it is Isla holding something in
her hands, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

I go to her, and even though I can’t
touch her or even reach for her, I can feel her emotions. I know instantly that
the tears she’s crying are tears of joy, not sorrow.

The little white stick in her hands
reveals two bright pink lines.

“
I’m
pregnant
,” she whispers.

The
scene flashes yet again, faster this time, and now I see Isla closing the door
to a fancy study, a slinky black gown swishing around her ankles. She turns,
looking as calm, cool, and collected as ever. But I feel the fear that courses
through her entire being, the horror pulsing through her veins.

Her hand shoots instinctively to her
abdomen as she takes a step closer to the man staring at her in wide-eyed
bewilderment.

Senator
Parker Williams.

“I
was hoping you’d remember me.” Isla’s cool tone is laced with hatred.

He approaches her, careful to keep
his gaze focused on her eyes, and not on the dipping neckline of her dress.
“How much do you want?” he growls.

She lets out a low, sinister laugh,
gesturing to her surroundings. “Frédéric is going to propose to me this
weekend. I’m going to be a Morel. Do you actually think I want your money?”

The slightest hint of fear passes
through his cowardly eyes. “Then what do you want?”

Isla takes another step toward the
man who abused her, who used her body when she was too young to take a stand.
She takes a stand now, though, her courage unwavering. Only I can feel the
terror tying knots in her stomach, the hatred that boils inside her, that makes
her want to kill this man.

I want to kill him too.

But I am powerless as I watch the
scene unfold. I am here…but not here in the way I want to be.

“You’ll resign from the Senate this
week, or else I’ll tell the Morels what you did to me,” Isla threatens.

Now it is his turn to laugh. “Do you
think they’ll actually believe you? The
whore
?”

Isla’s tiny hand comes around fast,
slapping the pompous look right off his face. “I’ve already told the Morels’
lawyer—
my
lawyer now—in confidence
what you did to me. One phone call, and the story goes to the press, to the police,
to all of your slimy politician friends, and straight to your wife. Your life
will be over. Unless you resign.”

Just as he’s about to retort, she
pulls a photo out of her shiny silver clutch and shoves it into his chest.
“This is only a copy. The lawyer has the original, along with an entire roll of
film. I may have been too young to fight back, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew I’d
find you one day and take you down, you cowardly piece of shit.”

The defeat on Senator’s Williams
greasy old face is priceless as he stares at the photo in his hands, then
watches Isla stalk out of the study, slamming the door behind her.

Samuel was right.
Just like me, Isla was willing to risk
everything to bring this bastard down. She’d infiltrated a high-profile wealthy
family and had even pretended to fall in love with their son, all to scare the
shit out of Senator Williams and take away his career. Isla had no intention of
taking the story of her sordid past to the Morels, to the press, or to the
police. I knew her better than that. She would never want the world to know
what had happened to her. She simply wanted to take something important away
from Parker Williams, the way he had done to her.

Pride and love for my sister
overwhelm me as the scene flashes again, now moving quicker than before. It is
Isla, in the bedroom I searched at the Morel Château, leaving a note—the note I
found in Frédéric’s suitcase—and the massive diamond engagement ring on the
desk. Next I see her dashing into a black car outside the property, smiling at
the driver.

He tips his hat at her, his silvery
sapphire eyes twinkling through the darkness. “
Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.
”

I know that warm voice, those
knowing eyes. It’s Georges, the chauffeur.

“I need the ferry to Lausanne,” Isla
says in French as she shoots one last glance toward the looming castle.

The scenes zip before me, moving
faster as I trace Isla’s voyage to the train. Next we are on the Orient
Express, and she is dialing my number with one hand and touching her belly with
the other. Nervous, excited energy surrounds her as she leaves the message I
have already heard. I want to scream out to her, warn her, stop what I know is
about to happen, but Isla can’t see me, and I can’t scream. She doesn’t know
I’m here, and I don’t even know
how
I
am here.