Midnight Train to Paris (4 page)

“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
.”

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. Promise 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.

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 9:37
A.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.

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.”