Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(33)

And with that she shuts the door in my face.





I sag back against the landing in defeat.

One step forward, two steps back, and zero steps closer to sending Thomas on.

“You tried,” says Pauline. “It did not work. These things happen.” She tugs a slip of paper from her pocket. A schedule. “Your parents should be on their way to the Pont Marie. We can meet them there—”

“You knew she wouldn’t talk to me.”

Pauline shrugs again. “I suspected, perhaps. The French are private people.”

“But you didn’t say anything!” I cry, exasperated. “You let me come all this way. Why didn’t you warn me?”

Pauline turns her sharp eyes on me. “Would it have stopped you?”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it again.

“That’s what I thought.”

I want to shout, to say that it has to work. That Thomas is getting stronger, and I have to learn his story so I can remind him who he is, so that the mirror will work and I can send him on before someone gets hurt, or worse.

Instead, I press my palms against my eyes to clear my head and follow Pauline down the stairs and out into the sun.

We walk to the bridge in silence, the trip punctuated only by the occasional siren, an emergency vehicle rushing past. I tell myself it’s not Thomas. I hope it’s not Thomas.

“The upside,” observes Jacob, “is that if it is Thomas, it seems like he’s no longer fixated on you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.

Jacob glances over his shoulder, frowns.

What is it? I ask silently.

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The Seine comes into sight, and I spy my parents leaning against the stone lip of a bridge, waiting while Anton and Annette adjust their cameras.

Paris has a ton of bridges crisscrossing the river and running from the banks to the two islands that float in the middle. This particular bridge doesn’t look all that special—it’s the same pale stone as so much of the city—but as my shoes hit the edge, the Veil pulses, rippling around me. Jacob shoots me a warning look, and I force the Veil back, manage to keep my feet.

By the time Pauline and I reach Mom and Dad, they’ve already started filming.

“Paris has many ghost stories,” begins Mom. “Some of them scary and some of them strange, some of them gruesome and some simply sad. But few are as tragic as the ghost of the Pont Marie.”

Jacob looks over his shoulder again, and I assume he’s just keeping an eye out for Thomas.

“During World War Two,” explains Dad, “the Resistance relied on spies to steal information, smuggle secrets from the Nazi forces.”

“Hey, Cass,” says Jacob, but I shush him.

“It’s said that the wife of a Resistance fighter became a spy in an unconventional way. She began seeing a Nazi soldier and took his secrets back to her husband. The woman and her husband would meet here, on the Pont Marie, at midnight …”

“Cass,” whispers Jacob again.

“What is it?” I hiss.

“Someone’s following us.”

What?

I turn to follow Jacob’s gaze, already lifting the camera viewfinder to my eye. I brace myself, expecting to see Thomas. But instead I see a girl with a high ponytail and gold sneakers that catch the light.

Adele.

To her credit, she doesn’t try to blend in or hide. She doesn’t even pretend to be looking at anyone or anything else. She just stands at the edge of the bridge, arms folded and head cocked, the white lollipop stick still in her mouth.

“But one cold winter night,” continues Mom, “the woman came to the bridge, and her husband did not. He never showed, and she froze to death right here, secrets frozen on her tongue …”

I walk up to Adele.

She’s a good head shorter than me, but she stares up, unblinking.

“How long have you been following me?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Since you left our house.”

“Why?”

“I heard what you said to my mother.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you really interested in Thomas Laurent?”

“I told your mom—I’m researching a story.”

“Why?”

“For school,” I lie.

“It’s summer.”

“Fine,” I say. “I just want to know.”

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Why?”

I let out an exasperated breath. “Because I’m a ghost hunter, and Thomas Laurent is a ghost. Actually, he’s a poltergeist, which is like a ghost but stronger. I accidentally woke him up or something, and now he’s causing all kinds of problems, and I have to send him on to the other side, but I can’t do that until I figure out who he is—was—because he doesn’t remember.”

Jacob puts his head in his hands and groans, but Adele simply stares at me, chewing the inside of her cheek, and I wonder if the language barrier ate up half my words.

But then, after a long moment, she nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I believe you.”

She has a small backpack slung over one shoulder, and as I watch, she unzips it and pulls out a dozen cards, their edges fraying. “I brought you these,” she says, holding them out so I can see. They’re photographs, black and white, and faded with age.