Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(3)

I sigh and pick up my increasingly heavy backpack, throwing it on with a grunt. We had started our trip in London, where I spent way too much money buying clothes and knickknacks, and I’ve been lugging around too much shit for just one person. I probably should start leaving things behind or sending shit home, but I’m far too sentimental for the first option and way too broke for the second.

I head out into the hall and nod at the front-desk guy, Ryan from New Zealand.

“Sadie,” he says to me, pouting slightly, “you’re off?”

“I’ve got a train to catch, remember?” I tell him, adjusting the pack on my shoulders. He’s been hitting on me for the whole week I’ve been in Nice, and I’ve deftly avoided every one of his clumsy advances.

“But you’re going so late,” he says with a sloppy smile. “Why not stay the night and go to Barcelona in the morning?”

“No can do,” I tell him. “If I catch the eleven o’clock train, I sleep overnight and I don’t have to pay for another bed. Thank you for letting me keep my stuff in the dorm room, by the way.”

“No problem. You sure you don’t want to stay?”

“It’s all booked and nonrefundable.” I glance at the clock over his shoulder. “And I’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to the station.”

I give him a quick wave and then hustle out of there before he can try to convince me some more. I loved using Nice as a base to explore towns like Menton and Cannes and even Monaco, but I’m over the French Riviera. When you don’t have any money in a place like this, you really feel out of your element. I’m hoping Barcelona will be more in line with my spirit, that Spain will become the country to heal me before I return home. At the very least, it’s supposed to be easier on the wallet.

The night is warm and humid, and the sea breeze coming off the Mediterranean doesn’t seem to reach this far into the city. The hostel is somewhat near the train station, maybe a ten-minute walk, but it’s in a sketchy section of town.

If you were with Tom, maybe you’d be staying in one of the fancy hotels on the Promenade des Anglais, I can’t help but think.

But thoughts like that are futile.

I take out my phone from my purse and get walking directions through the maze of streets, but as the blocks get dirtier and more derelict—the stores boarded up, people shuffling out of alleys—I decide that flashing around my iPhone might not be the best idea.

I commit the map to memory.

Turn right on this street.

Turn left on that street.

Go straight until—

A low cough from behind me causes my heart to jump.

I look over my shoulder to see a large man walking a few meters behind me. I can’t make out his face—he’s looking down at the ground rather than at me, which I guess is a relief.

Still, I’m on edge. I’m walking through a strange neighborhood in Nice at night with a large backpack that’s making my pace considerably slower.

Don’t panic, I tell myself. Just a bit farther.

And yet as I take my first right onto Rue d’Alger, the man follows me.

Oh, fuck.

My mouth immediately goes dry from fear.

I swallow thickly and pick up the pace, trying to tell myself that it’s a coincidence and he’s not following me. I can’t be suspicious of everyone.

And yet everything seems more empty and darker somehow, and I’m starting to panic, hearing his heavy, lumbering footfalls behind me.

I have to be sure.

I take another right this time, so I’m basically heading back the way I came, toward the hostel, to try to throw him off guard.

He follows.

He’s fucking following me!

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Now what do I do?

I can almost feel him at my back, getting closer and closer, the dread around my heart tightening like a vice.

What do I do, what do I do?

I grip the straps around my shoulders, my head held high with false confidence, my eyes darting from side to side, trying to see a way out of this situation. But there’s no one else around. Not a soul. I have a better chance of getting to the hostel or at least an open store of some sort before I get to the train station.

I should at least cross the road. If he follows me, then I know to start running. The last thing I want is to start freaking out for no reason and look like an idiot, but that would definitely be a solid sign that You need to run, bitch.

I look down the street and see a car turning onto it, the headlights illuminating the dark street just enough. I take a chance and glance down the street, hoping to get a good look at this guy just in case something happens to me.

All I see is a large bald man running toward me with his hands out, and then a glimpse of his wild eyes.

It all happens in a blur.

I cry out and turn to run from him, but just as I’m stepping off the curb, he grabs the back of my pack, yanking me to the side.

My left foot lands at an unnatural angle.

I cry out as sharp pain shoots up from my ankle, jagged bolts of hot lightning that run along my thigh, all the way to my heart, freezing me on the spot, both in terror and in pain.

And yet I’m falling anyway, my shoulder striking the pavement, my skin on fire, as the man tries to get my purse over my head, the cross-body strap digging into my windpipe.

I’m screaming and yelling, but it’s coming out garbled, and I’m trying to kick with only one leg, because my other one is exploding with pain. Through my cries and the man’s hoarse grunts as he fights for my purse and pack, I hear the screech of brakes—and then suddenly there’s another man on the scene.