“I received a report of vandalism.” The cop’s tone is stiff and unfriendly. I can guarantee it’s not the same one he used a few moments ago with the crowd.
“You did?”
“Yes, Zara Thompson called it in.” He takes in the red letters on the door. “Do you have any idea who wrote that?”
“No. I was sleeping when it happened.”
“I don’t suppose you have any surveillance cameras for the door?” He looks up at the wall under the roof overhang.
“No, only an alarm to let me know if someone tries to break in.”
“That’s too bad.” His voice lacks any hint of disappointment. It’s neutral at best. His gaze falls to the door again. “Did you attempt to paint over the words or did someone else do that?”
“I did it.” I hold the doorknob tighter, hiding the tremor in my hand. I don’t want to give away that he scares me and give him an advantage.
He blows a hard breath over pursed lips. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can do about it. If there was evidence that could lead to an arrest, it was destroyed when you painted the door. Next time, don’t touch the crime scene until after an officer tells you it’s okay to disturb the area.”
Next time? God, please tell me there won’t be a next time.
“What about those people?” I point to the protesters.
“What about them?”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Does he need me to spell things out? “Aren’t they disrupting the peace? Or at the very least, harassing me?” I already know his answer, but maybe he’ll surprise me.
“As long as they stay off your property and don’t break any laws, there’s not much I can do about them.”
“So what? I have to put up with them yelling at me and making me feel unsafe?” Now that the officer is at my front door, the yelled threats have ceased. People are still chanting but at a more respectful volume.
I’m not deluding myself into believing it will stay that way after he leaves the street.
“I’m sure they’ll grow bored soon, and things will go back to normal in no time.” He nods at me and heads to his cruiser. He doesn’t bother to stop and reprimand the crowd.
And I’m left wishing Troy was coming home soon instead of later tonight.
24
ANGELIQUE
October 1943
France
Dr. Hubert movesa kitchen chair to face mine. “Johann, sit here. You are to hold on to Angelique and do whatever it takes to keep her from moving her arm. Rosita will do her best to keep it pinned down, but the calmer you keep Angelique, the easier everyone’s job will be.”
What Dr. Hubert doesn’t say, I read in his eyes. Their actions combined might make the doctor’s job easier, but my pain will not be any easier to bear.
Johann sits on the chair. He cups my face with his hands and kisses me. It’s long and deep and passionate, and for a moment I forget the throbbing in my hand.
He pulls away too soon. “I love you.” His voice is rough and raw, smooth and embracing. It gives me a strength I wouldn’t otherwise be able to find in myself. “Remember that. I love you and will do whatever I can to protect you.”
“I know,” I whisper. And I do. “I love you too.” I turn to Dr. Hubert. “I’m ready.”
I bury my face in Johann’s chest. His shirt smells like him—reminding me of the man who is strong, brave, and kind. I breathe in the scent, allowing it to ground me.
Johann holds me tightly to him, his arms embracing me. Rosita attempts to use her body weight, which is featherlight due to the declining war rations, to pin my arm to the table.
Dr. Hubert cleans the wound, and a sharp sting torments me. I release a hissed breath.
