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  But all good things must come to an end. And this is our end.

  I look down at her peaceful face. Even though I want to touch her and taste her, to commit her scent and her feel to memory, I don’t want to wake her. She needs the sleep, the rest. The escape. I walk to the bedside table and ease open the drawer. There is a notepad and pen inside, which I remove. I jot her a quick note and set it on top of the black bag, which I leave on the floor right in front of her. She should see it as soon as she wakes. And if she doesn’t want to take my offer, her father will talk her into it. He’ll help her see the wisdom in it.

  As for me, I didn’t get the good-bye that I’d like. Hell, I’d rather not say good-bye at all. But this is the best one I can give her. I just hope she’ll understand it.

  It’s as I’m backing silently out the door that Muse wakes. She lifts her head a couple of inches and fixes her bleary eyes on me. I see confusion. When she speaks, I wonder if she’s actually awake.

  “Jasper?”

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell her softly.

  “Don’t go,” she slurs, resting her head back in the same dip from which she raised it.

  “I have to.”

  “Then take me with you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please,” she whimpers, her eyes drifting shut again, like the pull of unconsciousness is more than she can fight.

  “I’m a killer. There’s no place in my life for you.”

  “Then don’t be a killer.”

  “It’s who I am.”

  Her brow crunches up a little, but her eyes are still closed. I think she’s already back asleep.

  “You don’t have to be.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I say nothing. I simply wait by the door as her breathing returns to its deep, even cadence, and then I walk out of her life forever.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Muse

  I feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck when I roll over in bed. Every joint is sore, every muscle is stiff and my face feels like it’s been kicked a time or two—swollen and tight.

  I manage to lever myself up onto an elbow and look around. It’s daylight. I can see sunshine peeking around the closed blinds at the window. I smack my lips. My mouth is dry as a bone.

  I move into a kneeling position, taking in the nearly untouched comforter. Evidently I didn’t move at all last night.

  As I go to scoot off the bed, I see a black bag sitting on the floor between the door and me. A narrow white paper is perched on top. I reach forward to snag it between my thumb and forefinger, plucking it off to read what it says.

  The script is neat, bold and slanted. Without even looking at the signature line, I know who wrote it. It’s as much Jasper as his tiger eyes and the scent of his skin when it’s wet.

  Go paint in Paris.

  Start over.

  Sarò sempre pensare a te.

  —J

  Sarò sempre pensare a te. I will always think of you.

  That sounds final. Like the end. Like forever.

  My heart lurches inside my chest as I consider that. Yes, I was (and still am) very upset with Jasper, and for good reason, but I never really thought that there would be nothing beyond yesterday. I never really thought that the things I said last night would be the only ones I’d ever get to say. I never really expected it to be over so fast, so suddenly. Like an unanticipated amputation. A clean, brisk cut. And then . . . nothing. Nothing except the phantom pain of what was. And what will never be again.

  What did I expect? I don’t really know. I only know that this wasn’t it.

  That’s when bits and pieces of a conversation rush in. Did I talk to Jasper last night? Did I ask him to take me with him? Did he tell me that he can’t? Or did I dream the whole thing? It’s fuzzy and unclear, but something in my heart tells me that it happened, that Jasper chose the life of a killer over me. That he walked away from me. Permanently.

  I scramble off the bed, throw open the door and go looking for Dad. He’s in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee like it’s a glass of vodka, which, considering the events of last night, it might very well be.

  “Good mor—”

  “Have you seen Jasper?” I interrupt without preamble.

  “Not since last night.” His expression is tired and a little melancholy.

  “Did he say where he was going? Did he say if he’s coming back?”

  “No. He didn’t. He just left.”

  “So he—he might not be coming back? Like at all?”

  “I don’t think so, honey. He left that bag and took off. That was the best thing he could do for you and he knew it.”

  “But . . . but that can’t be it! He can’t just leave like that!”

  My lungs are pumping harder and harder, my breath coming faster and faster. I feel frantic, desperate, like an addict who just lost her supplier in an unexpected drug bust. But he’s not my supplier. He’s my Jasper. And if he wants to be gone, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no way I can find him if he doesn’t want to be found. Jasper is a ghost. He’s trained to be invisible and has practiced it for years. If he leaves, that’s it. I’ll never see him again whether I want it that way or not.

  “Muse, you have to let him go. Trust m—”

  “Trust you?” I spit. “How the hell can I trust anybody?”

  “I know you’re upset, but when you calm down—”

  “When I calm down? When I calm down? Then what? I’ll go back to my blind ways? None of this will matter? I won’t be heartbroken and devastated and betrayed by the people I love most? Is that what you were going to say? Because if it was, you can save it. None of that’s true. Things won’t ever go back to the way they were. They won’t ever be the same again.” My voice cracks and I feel tears coursing down my face from a well I’d thought was dry. “I finally found someone to love. Not someone who loved me enough, but someone who I could love enough. How can I just let him go? How can I just go on like everything is okay? How can I pretend that everything will be okay when nothing will ever be okay again? How, Dad? Tell me how!”

  I’m nearing the point of irrational hysteria. I can feel it, winding up inside me like a toy monkey, cymbals at the ready to bang and bang and bang until I can’t think or see or hear anymore.

  Dad knows I’m on the verge, too. I can see it in the way he’s looking at me, like I’m an escapee from a psychiatric ward.

  “Muse, calm down. You’re tired. You’ve been through a lot in the last little while,” he says soothingly, reaching out to stroke my upper arms like he’s pacifying a child.

  “Stop it!” I hiss, throwing off his hands. “Stop treating me like an imbecile. You have no idea what you’ve done to me. What all this has done to me.”

  His eyes are full of remorse. “I never meant for you to get involved. I never meant for this to touch you. I never meant for this to be your life.”

  “Fat lotta good that does me now, huh, Dad?” I snap bitterly.

  A pinch of guilt nips at my conscience when I see his expression fall. It’s as though I physically slapped him across the face. It’s not fair, of course. I’m just lashing out. I know he’d never purposely hurt me, and I know that this is all a by-product of his career and the way in which he has lived his life. It’s collateral damage. I am collateral damage.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I need to get a handle on this before I say or do something else I’ll regret.

  “Look, I know you’ve always tried to live your life being good, doing good, making choices that have the right outcomes, but sometimes no one can see how far the ripples will spread. No one can know that. And you were no exception.”

  I can see that he’s relieved by my composure. He’s never known how to deal with a woman’s outburst. I remember that well enough from my hormonal teenage years.

  “Muse, you’re smart and capable, resilient and one of the most talented artists I’ve ever seen. You’ll land on your feet no matter w
hat curveball life throws your way. I never worry about that. Even if that curveball is making some big changes, like moving again or taking on a different name, you’ll take it all in stride. That’s your nature. You’ll still be you, Muse Marie Harper, no matter how other people know you. But what I do worry about is your safety. If it weren’t for that, I’d never suggest you pick up your life and move it.”

  “That’s why you let me believe moving to San Diego was for you, wasn’t it? You knew I’d never go unless I believed I was protecting you.”

  That’s the one thing I inherited from my father. I don’t run.

  His smile is sadly sheepish, one that says he’s been caught red-handed.

  “I know you well, Daughter.”

  “So it would seem,” I reply. My part should’ve ended with “Father” as his ended in “Daughter.” It’s a simple way we’ve teased each other since I was a little girl. But today is not a day for teasing. Things are not the same as they were when I was a little girl. They may never be again.

  He grips my shoulders, his fingertips digging in tight as he bends his knees a little so that he can look me square in the eye. “Everything I’ve ever done was to keep you safe. From defending this country on the front lines to working with covert teams to take out threats against it, it has always been with you in mind. Giving my baby a safe place to grow and prosper. I just never expected it to come to her door this way because of it.”

  I swallow my resentful retort. I know he meant well, but it still stings right now. Nothing but time and distance will change that. But right now, I can at least give him this. “You couldn’t have known, Dad.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I don’t know what else to say to that, mainly because I don’t know what the right answer is. All I know is that talking about all this isn’t doing anybody any good. Trying to survive today and planning for tomorrow are the only things worthwhile right now.

  I nod and attempt a smile, needing air and space and time to think and heal and go forward. I hike my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m gonna go look through what Jasper left me and get a plan together.”

  “No breakfast?”

  “No, maybe later.”

  He nods, but his smile is strained, as is his expression. He knows me well enough to know that this is something I have to do on my own. He has to let me come to terms with it in my way, in my time. The days of him sheltering me are over.

  I stop before I close my bedroom door, calling back over my shoulder. “Dad, could you find Jasper for me? If I needed you to?”

  I hold my breath as I await his answer, the one I have a suspicion that I already know. The one I believe to be inevitable.

  “No, honey,” he replies soberly. “If he doesn’t want to be found, there’s probably not a person in the world who could catch him.”

  My heart sinks. “That’s what I thought.”

  When I close the door, it feels like I’m closing the door on so much more than just a plain white hallway wall.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Muse

  I sit on the bed with the makings of a whole new life spread out around me—a new social security card, a new driver’s license, a new passport with my DMV photo on it. It’s even been stamped several times, like I’m an accomplished world traveler. All of them look slightly worn. Handled, like they would if they really were mine. And they’re all in the name of Elizabeth Harker.

  In the bottom of the bag sit several stacks of money in four different currencies, sunglasses, and a wig if I need them. Staring at it all makes me feel incredibly sad and heartbroken because it assures me that the life I’ve always known is over. Whoever is after Dad’s team and their families put me in danger, too. There’s no way he’ll give me a moment’s peace if I try to stay at this point. Jasper obviously agrees.

  But buried underneath the sadness and heartbreak is a little bud of something . . . positive. Good. Hopeful, maybe. It comes from knowing that Jasper has obviously known for at least a day or two that he had no intention of killing me. Long before the ins and outs of his fake assignment were revealed. That much is clear.

  The rest, however, isn’t clear at all, but I’m learning that when it comes to Jasper, most things aren’t. Like I don’t know when he had time to get this together. He’s so secretive and sneaky, it’s hard to say. The one thing I’m not really surprised about is that he has these kinds of connections. I mean the guy is a government assassin. It’s kind of like a job requirement that he has shady acquaintances. I guess the only thing that really matters at this point is that whether he’d ever admit to it, Jasper has feelings for me. Enough to make him forego doing his job in favor of letting me live. Even going so far as to make sure I’m started up with a new life and new identity. That I’m safe. And according to Jasper himself, his job has always come first. According to him (and his motto) he never thinks of his targets again. His own way of living with it, surviving it. Yet he made an exception for me. Surely that means something. It has to, right?

  For the first time in what seems like years (although it’s been nowhere near that long) I have hope. It’s a tiny, fragile thread, but I can still feel it. That’s why I take my time in making arrangements and picking a place to go. Maybe Jasper will come back. Maybe he will choose me over his old life. Maybe he will come back and take me with him wherever it is that he needs to go.

  And I will go. I’m beginning to think I would follow him anywhere. Because if he comes for me, it means he loves me. And if he loves me, maybe my fatal flaw isn’t so fatal after all.

  —

  Saying good-bye to my father this time was a little different than it was last time. Although this time I’m moving farther away, we’re parting on much more mature and advanced terms. And there’s a lot more turbulent water under our bridge.

  We both know the score, which is a first for me, and while learning the truth about so much has been a hard blow for me, it has also given me a sense of control that I’ve never had before. I don’t think Dad is very fond of it, but he’ll have to work through this his way because it’s not changing. Things won’t ever go back to the way they were before.

  Of course we’ll keep in touch. Regardless of my struggles with what I now know, he’s still my father. I love him very much. So we’ve worked out a way to communicate via an online dating site for weekly updates and then postcards containing code that we’ll follow up with the occasional phone call once a month or so. He also bought a burner phone. I am the only one with the number. It is only for a true emergency. We both agreed that hopefully I’ll never have to use it.

  In the event that something happens to him, God forbid, he’s got a failsafe in place and I’ll be notified via a phone call once I obtain a new cell and give him my international number. It’s all very complicated and spy-ish, not at all as thrilling and satisfying as it’s portrayed in the movies. Right now it only seems to intensify the feeling that my entire life is a lie. I don’t know why that should bother me now. Evidently big parts of it have been for a long, long time.

  Dad also promised me that either he’ll join me or I can come home once all this is sorted out and taken care of. Part of me looks forward to that day. Part of me dreads it, as that will be the day when Jasper will truly be out of my life in every possible way. Until then, I’ll hold out hope that he’ll come to me, but I understand that things have to be this way for now.

  For now.

  Until then, I’ve got the clothes on my back and what few things Dad is having Miran ship to me to a hotel in Paris. Everything else will be stored until life returns to normal.

  Or whatever new normal there will be in the aftermath of Jasper.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Muse

  I watch through the hazy oval window of the airplane as Paris comes into view. The glitter of a million lights sparkles below like a miniature Christmas village as we descend. For a second, I think I can even make out the Eiffel Tower as we pass over, heading toward Charles de Gaulle
Airport.

  I open myself to the awe of the moment, to the excitement of a future exploring such an amazing city. I let it wash over me, let it pour into my every inner crevice, hoping it will drown the ever-present gloom that has haunted my bones since the morning I woke to find Jasper gone. I’ve fought it with a variety of weapons. Everything from bitter rage to blind hope—each has worked exceptionally well for a brief period of time, but then, like a boomerang unerringly finding its way back to its starting point, I return to a semi-despondent state of emotional unrest. But at least I have those spots of freedom from my misery. If not for those, I’d have likely already gone totally off the deep end.

  So tonight, I’m going to embrace Paris. I’m going to embrace the adventure of starting over. Few people get the opportunity to completely reinvent themselves, yet here I am staring one right in the face. As much as I can, I’m going to seek out happiness here.

  In a land where I don’t speak the language, where I don’t know a soul, where I have no clue how to go forward, I think dismally.

  Stop it! I reprimand my inner child firmly. You can’t think that way. You will survive. You will move on with your life. And one day, you will get to go home.

  That’s what I tell myself, but I’m pretty sure not a single part of my tattered soul believes it.

  Two and a half months later

  The November evening wind is chilly on my cheeks as I ride my bike along the rutted road that leads from the train station to my cottage. Auvers-sur-Oise is my new home. It’s less than twenty miles outside Paris, small enough to get around on a bike or on foot and, best of all, it’s rich in beauty and art history.

  As I ride, I take in the soothing landscape. I can call to mind a number of paintings that depict the narrow, winding streets and rolling, bungalow-dotted hills of a quaint French hamlet, but nothing compares to actually being here.