The Keeper of Happy Endings(47)

Anson’s shadow looms against the bare stone wall. In the quiet, I hear the zipper of his jacket and then a rustling sound, like clothes being stripped off. I take an abrupt step back, then another. I thought I wanted to know the truth, to see it with my own eyes, but suddenly I find I can’t bear it.

I feel sick to my stomach and ashamed. I’ve been such a fool, such a stupid, lovesick fool. I turn to go back the way I came, but in the dark, I blunder into a stack of crates. The sound echoes like a shot in the quiet.

I see Anson’s shadow go still, then straighten. An instant later, he appears in the doorway, briefly silhouetted. “Who’s there?”

He waits, head cocked. I cover my mouth with both hands, willing myself to be silent. Part of me wants to confront him, to tell him I know what he’s up to, but I can’t bear the thought of being caught skulking in the dark.

“Show yourself,” he growls. His voice is strange, wary and thick with menace. “Now.”

I’ve never seen him angry, and it frightens me to think of his reaction should he discover me here. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to be invisible as the scuff of his boots moves closer. I’m wedged between two stacks of crates, caught like a rabbit in a snare. I release a sigh of relief when I hear him move past. But seconds later, he reverses course and I feel the bite of his fingers on my arm.

He yanks me from my hiding place, a wine bottle clutched in his fist, raised high and ready to strike. I’m stunned by the look on his face, his features contorted with a mix of fear and rage. He’s almost unrecognizable.

He clamps a hand over my mouth and yanks me backward against him, still poised to wield the wine bottle. I can feel the energy in him, coiled, lethal. A sob bubbles up in my throat.

The muscles in his arms go slack, but his grip remains firm as he jerks me around to face him. Seconds tick by as we lock eyes in the darkness. Eventually, I feel the tightly coiled energy in him begin to unspool. He lowers the bottle, then holds a finger to his lips, commanding me to be silent.

I’m half marched, half dragged to the small room he’s just left. It’s not much bigger than a closet and is furnished as a crude kind of living space. In addition to the cot, there’s a small sink and a cracked mirror, a narrow chest of drawers, and a battered leather case fitted with what looks like a homemade radio. But it’s the empty leather pouch and the scattering of official-looking documents on the table that hold my attention. Cartes d’identité—French identity papers, birth certificates, ration cards for both food and clothing.

A dozen questions crowd into my head, but before I can open my mouth, Anson’s fingers bite deeper into my arm and I’m pulled around to face him. “What are you doing down here?”

I stare at him, stunned that he can ask such a thing of me when he’s the one sneaking around in the dark. But the glint in his eyes withers me, and I find myself explaining. “I saw you with Elise, whispering in the hall. I saw her slip a note into your pocket, and I thought . . .” I swallow the rest, letting my eyes slide away. “I needed to know if it was true.”

He eyes me with astonishment. “That’s why you followed me down here? Because you thought I had a date with Elise?”

I look away, shocked to realize there might be something worse than catching Anson with another woman. I shift my gaze back to the papers on the table. Most are yellowed with age and deeply creased. A few are marred with stains, splotches, the occasional torn corner. Who do they belong to, and what are they doing down here?

I reach for one of the documents, a certificate of birth, but Anson catches my wrist. “Don’t touch,” he hisses. His eyes, stripped of color in the cold light of the overhead bulb, send a chill through me.

My thoughts skitter to those suddenly empty beds, seemingly recovered men dying without warning in the middle of the night and with greater and greater frequency of late. To the rumors of a traitor in our midst—a spy reporting back to the Gestapo. We’ve all feigned ignorance, because it’s safer than admitting what we all suspect, that those men hadn’t died at all, that somehow they’d been smuggled out of the hospital right under our noses. That Dr. Jack is somehow at the back of it all, and the Germans know it and are just waiting for proof before they make their arrest.

Is that what Anson is doing in the basement? Helping Sumner Jackson smuggle Americans and Brits out of France and using forged papers to do it? If so, why not tell me? Surely he knows I can be trusted. A wave of dread washes through me as another thought occurs—a terrible thought. What if Anson is the spy we’ve all been worried about, and he’s actually been helping the Gestapo gather evidence? The possibility makes the back of my neck go clammy. Has he been working for the Nazis the whole time, pretending to be a hero? Pretending . . . everything?

“Those papers,” I say, nodding toward the table. “Please tell me you’re not doing anything wrong with them, that you’re not . . .” I let the words trail, unable to finish the rest.

He studies me, his expression unreadable. The moment spins out, and we stand eye to eye as I wait for his answer, as if we’re poised at the edge of some terrible precipice, waiting to see who will jump first.

“Just tell me you’re not working for them,” I say thickly. “Please.”

A muscle begins to tick in his jaw. “That’s what you think?”