Chapter Text
Oh, I cannot explain, every time, it's the same
Oh, I feel that it's real, take my heart
I've been lonely too long, oh, I can't be so strong
Take the chance for romance, take my heart.
-Cheri Cheri Lady, Modern Talking.
Paris, France.
Early February.
The sound of her heels echoed through the empty streets of Paris. The sun had only just begun to warm the morning, and had it been up to her, she would have remained buried beneath her blankets. But her contact had insisted on meeting early; his notes betrayed urgency.
—Guten Morgen, Fräulein. —she heard behind her.
When she turned around, she found two German soldiers in elegant gray trench coats. The taller one smoked a cigarette and watched her with obvious interest. Louise feigned shyness and lowered her gaze to her shoes.
—Bonjour, Monsieur. —Louise returned the greeting.
—Mademoiselle, un sourire? —his companion exclaimed in heavily accented german as he licked his lips.
And she offered him a small smile. Not because she was pleased to see them, but because it was either comply with his request or risk being detained under some idiotic accusation meant to soothe the soldier’s bruised ego.
She crossed the street immediately without looking back. Soon she reached her destination, a scarcely crowded café on a street unpopular among Germans, and she thanked God for it. She truly despised watching them parade around with the shine of their medals and, even worse, listening to their exaggerated tales of glory, many of which seemed cowardly in her eyes.
But that was only her opinion, and in her line of work, what mattered was hearing the opinions of others. Despite their intimidating expressions and voices dripping with authority, most of them were desperate to be listened to.
What better confidante than a submissive and accommodating woman?
A bell announced her entrance. A waiter greeted her and gestured toward the empty tables.
—Merci bien. —she thanked him while walking toward the back of the café.
According to the instructions, her contact would be waiting at the last table. Her gaze searched for the man from the description: tall, blond, and distinctly English-looking. The man seated at the back was none of those things.
Louise slowed her pace as she considered what to do. Before she could reach him, a hand seized her forearm, startling her. She turned toward her captor and found icy blue eyes and a military uniform that froze her blood.
Louise cursed. It was a trap!
—Mademoiselle Noir? —the German soldier asked.
Louise’s legs nearly gave out beneath her, but she remained standing straight.
—Monsieur Brown?
The man smiled. —Come with me, unfortunately our table was taken.
That sentence came as a relief to Louise, who dropped gracelessly into the chair across from him.
—It’s only a disguise, —Louise thought.
The man seemed amused by her expression. Louise’s heart pounded with the speed of a train, and she intertwined her hands beneath the table to calm herself. If she lifted a cup at that moment, she was certain she would cause a disaster all over the table and her clothes.
—I apologize for frightening you. —Monsieur Brown remarked.
Louise retrieved a cigarette from her purse and brought it to her lips. Immediately, a lighter materialized before her, offering her a flame. Louise tilted her face and looked at the man through narrowed eyes.
—Good. You should be. —she replied after exhaling smoke toward his face.
A waiter approached their table and Monsieur Brown ordered for both of them. While he spoke, Louise studied his expressions, the way his fingers slid over the menu, his eye contact with the waiter, even the crooked smile he gave while making a joke.
The conversation stalled. Louise was not certain she trusted the man sitting across from her and wondered what Vera Atkins would do in her situation.
—And what is it you do, Monsieur? —Louise asked, leaning back against her chair and trying to control the tremor in the hand holding her cigarette.
Monsieur Brown crossed his arms, observing her closely.
—You’re a skittish cat.
Louise frowned. —Excuse me?
To his credit, he looked embarrassed. —I was told you were a distrustful woman, like a cat.
He leaned across the table and murmured with a smile. —Does my appearance not match what you expected?
—I wasn’t expecting a uniform.
The man shrugged just as the waiter returned with a plate of food and a white cup of coffee, placing them in front of Monsieur Brown. Immediately, and without the courtesy of waiting for her, he lifted his fork and knife and began to eat.
Louise tilted her head and sighed in defeat. She would have to exchange the security code first because apparently, they had sent her a novice.
—The avenues of Paris are overcrowded.
He swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. —That’s why I prefer the countryside.
Then, he pulled an envelope from his pocket and carelessly left it near Louise’s purse. The waiter arrived with her order. Louise lifted her gaze, smiling sweetly at him while her right hand slipped the envelope into her bag. Monsieur Brown raised his coffee cup and took a sip. Louise heard him cough and press a napkin to his mouth.
—Too hot? —Louise asked.
The man covered his mouth with his fist and raised an index finger, asking for a moment.
—Too sweet. I think the entire country’s sugar ended up in this cup.
She arched a brow, thoroughly entertained by his complaints… Stretching out her hand, she reached for the cup in question and took a sip, feeling Monsieur Brown’s gaze fixed on her.
—Personally, I think its sweetness is just right.
Louise commented as she set the cup back down.
Monsieur Brown lifted the cup and placed his mouth precisely where her lipstick had left the imprint of her lips. —Just like you, Mademoiselle Noir.
---
Tuileries Garden, Paris.
Late February.
Monsieur Brown checked the time on his pocket watch and sighed for the fourth time that hour.
Mademoiselle Noir was arriving with an elegant delay of forty-five minutes, and he was beginning to grow impatient. Was it a habit of hers? Or worse, had she been discovered? He would not have been terribly surprised if that were the case; the lady did not seem made for this line of work.
But God, what an enchanting sight she was.
Mademoiselle Noir entered the park dressed elegantly in a baby-blue two-piece suit that ought to have been criminal for a skirt sitting two fingers above the knee. Draped over her shoulders was a white fur coat, and she carried a parasol to shield herself from the gentle sun.
He glanced around, noticing he was not the only one admiring her appearance. Mademoiselle Noir walked toward him and sat in the metal chair beside him.
—I thought we were supposed to behave discreetly. —Monsieur Brown remarked.
The little woman beside him pursed her lips and closed her parasol.
—I have yet to do anything that would invite judgment upon me, Monsieur.
—Look at the way you’re dressed.
—Would you trust an ugly woman to gather information?
—If she were discreet, yes.
—Then you must be the only man in Paris who thinks that way.
Monsieur Brown crossed his arms, watching her with a smile.
—You truly enjoy arguing. If I told you the sky was blue, you would insist it was orange.
She turned to him with smugness. —At sunset, the sky is orange.
—See? I could never win against you.
She sighed. —Fine, down to business. —She turned toward him with a lovely smile and gently brushed her fingers along his chin. —Lady Enma was evacuated successfully, but her transcripts are still hidden in a warehouse near Pont Alexandre.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. —That is an exceptionally vague location. Can you give me more details?
She let out a charming little laugh. —I’m only the messenger pigeon. —And she smiled mischievously. —You’ll have to figure it out yourself.
Monsieur Brown clenched his jaw, suddenly struck by the urge to strangle the woman.
—That’s all? —he asked irritably. —I waited an hour for a vague direction, or are you withholding the complete information from me?
She rested her head against his shoulder. —That is all the transmission said.
—Then you must have translated it incorrectly.
She lifted her head to look at him, but Monsieur Brown avoided her gaze.
—Did you just doubt my abilities? Wonderful. Next time you intercept the transmission and I’ll do your job. Let’s see if you manage it better.
Oh, he had angered the woman.
Good. It was the bare minimum payment for her unjustified delay.
—Besides. —she exclaimed, lifting her head. —It’s hypocritical to speak of discretion when you’re walking around dressed in a German uniform. Aren’t you afraid of being discovered? Impersonating someone from the regime is a crime.
Monsieur Brown nodded, giving his knee two absent pats.
—Who said I was pretending? I am an officer.
Monsieur Brown draped his arm over the back of Mademoiselle Noir’s chair. —Only an idiot would attempt it; it’s far too complicated to fake if you’ve never experienced military culture.
Mademoiselle Noir frowned. —Then why are you helping us?
He sighed as he rose from the bench.
—I wouldn’t wish to bore you with the details. In any case, I should leave and prepare myself.
She stood as well and opened her parasol.
—I hope you’re not playing double agent with us. If I die because of you, I’ll make sure to haunt you for eternity.
He let out an amused scoff. —My reward for war crimes will be the eternal company of a beauty? You should be frightening me, not motivating me.
She did not answer.
He kissed the back of her hand. —A pleasure speaking with you, Mademoiselle Noir. I hope I never have the pleasure of meeting you again.
.
.
.
—Are you following me?
Louise turned around. Monsieur Brown was watching her with a crowbar in his hands.
—What is the crowbar for?
Monsieur Brown rotated his wrist. —To force locks open.
Louise’s eyes widened as she stepped toward him. —Are you planning to smash the locks until they give in like some savage?
—It has worked for me.
—Are you an idiot?
—Not enough of one to miss that you were following me.
Louise placed a hand on her hip. —I was also assigned to recover the transcripts. Believe me, I have no desire to breathe the same air as you.
Then she extended her hand to snatch the crowbar away from him. —And stop doing that! You’re leaving a trail.
He raised the crowbar above his head. —Do you have a better solution? Because I’m open to suggestions.
Louise glanced over her shoulder before walking toward the door of another abandoned warehouse. From her pocket, she pulled out a lockpick and a small metal rod.
Monsieur Brown watched her crouch down and toy with the lock. While he waited, he allowed his gaze to wander toward the lovely curve of his new companion’s backside.
A soft click announced the woman’s success. She opened the door with a proud smile.
—See? Discretion.
Monsieur Brown bowed slightly. —I’m impressed.
Louise stepped inside the warehouse and covered her nose with a handkerchief. The place reeked of decay.
—How many places have you checked? —Monsieur Brown asked.
Louise studied the ceiling, wondering how sturdy the structure really was.
—Five. And you? —Louise answered, still staring upward.
—Four.
—Excellent. If we’re lucky, we’ll find something here, and if not, there are only two more places that fit the description. —Louise turned toward him. —Do you prefer up or down?
He pulled one hand from his pocket and looked at her suspiciously. —May I know what exactly we’re discussing?
Louise pointed toward the basement stairs.
—Would you rather search upstairs or downstairs?
The man shrugged, and Louise made the decision herself, descending the dimly lit basement stairs. It was filled with empty wooden barrels, discarded bottles, and a wooden sign with peeling paint. Rats too, judging by the faint squeaks she could hear nearby.
Louise adjusted the gloves on her hands and accepted that they would not survive the filthy task of searching the place, which she considered a tragedy. They were new.
She searched beneath the sheets draped over abandoned furniture and checked the corners cluttered with junk, but found nothing except tools, ropes, and moldy clothes.
She grabbed a metal bar to pry open the barrels. Every time she removed a lid, she recoiled quickly from the rush of sour, fermented air that escaped and made her eyes water.
It was worse than inhaling a drunkard’s breath, and unfortunately, she knew the dreadful sensation well from her time as a waitress. She leaned over one barrel and smiled when she spotted a black briefcase at the bottom. Stretching out her arm, she grabbed it and checked its contents.
Lady Enma’s documents and transcripts!
Louise smiled and hurried back upstairs to the first floor.
—Monsieur Brown? I found the briefcase
But Monsieur Brown was in the company of another German soldier who, upon seeing her, immediately pointed his revolver at her.
Louise cursed. Of course, it was a trap, and she would be the stupid dead woman who had helped the Germans locate an information leak.
However, Monsieur Brown raised the metal bar and struck the soldier across the back, causing him to drop his weapon, though not hard enough to incapacitate him.
The soldier pulled a knife from his pocket and slashed Monsieur Brown’s leg. To his credit, the man did not even react, instead focusing on striking him across the head with the bar once more.
Louise clutched the briefcase in search of some sense of safety and watched Monsieur Brown bring a hand to his leg and hiss in pain.
She approached her companion cautiously. His gaze was fixed on the briefcase in her arms.
—He’s still alive. —Louise murmured upon noticing the soldier’s chest rising.
Monsieur Brown slipped his hand inside his coat and pulled out his gun, aiming it at the soldier’s head. Urgently, Louise placed her hand over the man’s arm.
—What is wrong with you? We can’t shoot him!
He gasped in disbelief. —You intend to let him go?
—No! —Louise shrieked. —But if you fire, you could alert someone nearby.
He considered her words before holstering the weapon. —And what do we do with him?
—Get rid of him, obviously.
Monsieur Brown squeezed his eyes shut, clearly nearing the end of his patience.
—I mean how exactly do we do that?
Louise bit at the nail of her thumb while thinking and suddenly remembered the ropes she had found in the basement.
—Don’t move.
She hurried downstairs, leaving Monsieur Brown staring after her in confusion. Soon she returned carrying ropes and knelt to tie the soldier’s hands. Her companion understood her intention and, with difficulty, crouched beside her to help bind the man’s legs.
Louise untied the scarf from around her neck and shoved it into the soldier’s mouth. Feeling the man’s stare beside her, she exclaimed:
—In case he wakes up. This way he won’t be able to scream.
Monsieur Brown smiled, shaking his head. —You certainly have experience, but we’ll need to weigh him down or we’ll end up with a corpse drifting through the Seine.
Together they searched for anything heavy enough to anchor him to the riverbed. Louise found a pile of bricks and bags of cement. Monsieur Brown carried two bricks and left the warehouse.
Through a window, Louise watched him walk toward a poorly lit stretch along the riverbank and place them there. He seemed to inspect the surroundings before returning inside. Monsieur Brown paused to rub his left leg and grimaced at the sight of blood staining his hand.
Louise gathered more rope and crouched down to grab the soldier by the ankles.
Monsieur Brown crossed his arms. —And what exactly are you planning now?
—Helping you carry him.
—So you can make me trip? Move aside. —he snapped irritably before pulling his gun from his coat and extending it toward her. —Take this, and if anyone approaches, you shoot. Then we’ll figure out how to escape.
Louise was about to protest, but Monsieur Brown gave her no chance. Instead, he crouched down and, with a grunt, hoisted the soldier over his shoulder.
—Come on. Walk in front. I don’t trust you not to shoot me in the back.
—We’re allies.
—Accidents happen.
They left the warehouse, Monsieur Brown carrying the soldier while Louise held the rope, the briefcase, and a gun in her arms. At the riverbank, Monsieur Brown lowered the soldier onto the ground and placed the bricks on top of his chest. He lifted the man’s body while Louise threaded the ropes beneath him, making certain to tighten them securely.
The soldier was beginning to regain consciousness when Monsieur Brown, without the slightest hesitation, hurled him into the river. Together they watched the body sink beneath the water, leaving behind a trail of small bubbles that disturbed the harmony of the river’s surface.
Well, that solved the problem.
Louise turned toward her companion. —Come to my place, we need to treat that wound.
The man beside her gave a small startled jump, as though he had forgotten she was there.
—I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the hospital and have it treated.
—And how exactly are you going to explain the injury?
—No one will ask questions.
Louise walked around him, and the man suddenly had the unsettling sensation of being hunted.
—Let’s say they patch you up and someone asks what happened… It’s a knife wound. I’m certain they’ll be very interested in who would attack a German soldier. What are you going to tell them? And imagine if someone connects it to the upcoming disappearance of the idiot resting down there. —Louise said, gesturing toward the river. —How strange, one wounded soldier and another missing on the very same night…
Monsieur Brown pressed his lips together, unwilling to admit she was right. Instead, he replied:
—You’re trying awfully hard to bring me back to your apartment, miss.
—You know what? Do as you please. Let it get infected and die if that’s what you want.
Louise tightened her grip on the briefcase and turned away.
The man found her fury oddly charming and reached out to stop her.
—I appreciate your kindness. Would you mind leading the way?
Monsieur Brown carried the briefcase during the walk to her apartment. They walked slowly with their arms linked so the man’s limp would go as unnoticed as possible. Louise opened the metal gate to her building.
—We’re going up to the third floor.
Monsieur Brown clenched his jaw and looked upward. —Of course, you live on the third floor.
When they entered her apartment, the man let out an impressed whistle.
—You have a elegant place. What is it that you do? So, I may submit my documentation properly.
Louise grimaced. —I’m a companion lady.
An awkward silence fell between them, with Monsieur Brown looking visibly embarrassed. Louise disappeared into her bedroom and searched the bathroom for the small first-aid kit. She dragged a chair closer to the sofa where the man sat.
—Take your trousers off.
He turned toward her, scandalized.
—Or how exactly do you expect me to treat your leg?
Oh. Louise was now certain the man was thoroughly embarrassed. His forehead and cheeks had turned red, making him look as though he had spent hours beneath the sun. Still, he rose from the sofa and obeyed her request. As he did, Louise pretended to soak the cloth in her hand with more water, though her gaze drifted more than once.
He possessed an incredible pair of legs.
Monsieur Brown dropped back onto the sofa and rested his leg across Louise’s lap.
—This is going to hurt terribly. —Louise warned with a smile.
He barely had time to brace himself before Louise pressed the cloth against the wound.
—Daughter of a—
—Let it out. It’s good for the soul. —she commented while cleaning the skin.
He hissed and shifted uncomfortably. —Tell me something about yourself. Distract me.
Louise arched a brow. —I’m not a circus, Monsieur.
—Of course not. You seem more the sort that belongs in a museum.
That drew a smile from Louise, one she tried to suppress.
—I’m Louise.
—A pleasure. I’m Hans Müller.
She shook her head and stopped moving her hands, looking at him seriously.
—No. My real name is Louise.
He blinked in surprise and extended his hand toward her.
—Mine is Logan.
---
Monsieur Brown, or Logan Bush… his real name, became her unofficial partner. They worked well together, serving as mutual support and strengthening one another’s weaknesses. Whenever Logan needed a beautiful, smiling companion, he could rely on having Louise clinging to his arm, silently gathering information.
And if Louise needed a man to help her gain access to salons that would never open their doors to her otherwise, she could rely on him and his exceedingly convenient identity.
His public persona was Hans Müller, the son of a German woman and an unknown father. A visionary young man with grand ideas who had paused his personal ambitions in order to support the regime and pursue success in the business world.
He worked in the military administration offices, inside a requisitioned mansion whose original owners had been given no choice but to surrender it to the regime.
Every time Louise encountered Logan wearing his military uniform, chills ran down her spine, and she had to remind herself that this was Logan Bush, son of a British father and a German mother, risking his neck to gather information for the Allies.
That night, they were together pretending to be a couple in love while carefully observing the changing shifts among the guards.
—Seriously, was there no other way to obtain this information?
Beside her, Logan cleared his throat, trying not to choke on the dry air. —There was a leak, and they changed the patrol rotation.
Louise wrinkled her nose as they passed a group of German soldiers. Under any other circumstances, she would never have been found walking through streets known for their heavy German presence, but beside Logan and his stupid uniform, she felt a strange sense of safety.
—Guten Abend, meine Herren. —Logan greeted the group.
One of them, a cigarette caught between his fingers, looked exhausted but gave a small nod of his head. —Abend.
Louise held her breath until they were farther away.
—Doesn’t it frighten you to speak to them? —she asked quietly.
Logan’s jaw tightened for a moment before he smiled. —There would be no point in showing fear when I’m wearing the uniform too.
—I’m terrified of them. —Louise murmured. —I know I could kill a man, but I fear the consequences afterward.
—I’m curious. How can you do your job when your mind is occupied with those kinds of horrors?
Louise swung her purse lightly and lowered her gaze to her shoes.
—Louise is terrified all the time, but Amélie Blanchard enjoys the attention, the generous gifts from her admirers, and the ostentatious cosmopolitan life.
Logan nodded. —And will Amélie Blanchard be meeting someone later tonight?
—Yes. Rudolph Stieblitz returned to the city.
—How can you tolerate that man? He’s pathetic.
—You would do well not to underestimate him and remember that nobody holds a position that good through favors alone. —Louise replied seriously. —He may appear pathetic, but he’s intelligent.
Logan fell silent for a moment. —Do you like him?
Louise let out an amused scoff. —No. Like you said before, I tolerate him. His conversation is pleasant, and with a little whiskey, he loosens his tongue.
—My tongue is at your disposal if you need it. —Logan remarked as he kissed her hand.
Louise smacked his chest. —You shameless man. Come on, the guards are starting to move again.
---
Outside Paris, France.
One night in mid-July.
Logan felt his lungs burning from the effort of running, yet he refused to stop, not when he knew Louise was still inside the building. He heard gunshots behind him and furious German shouting that he understood perfectly well.
Oh, They wanted them dead.
He kicked open the door to an office and stormed inside.
There, kneeling on the floor, was the reckless woman determined to finish connecting the wires to activate the explosives.
—NOIR! WE HAVE TO GO. NOW!
Louise turned toward him calmly. —Do you have a knife?
Frustrated, and knowing better than to argue, Logan threw her the knife he carried in his pocket. He watched her strip the wires, reconnect them, and wait for the soft ticking sound. The moment she heard it, she sprang to her feet and seized his hand, dragging him along. They ran with every ounce of strength they had, hiding themselves in the darkness, and soon Louise’s insane stunt paid off.
The damned factory exploded, forcing the Germans to focus on the fire and abandon their patrol routes. That night, they saved the lives of twenty-five people.
—You’re insane. —Logan said, holding her face between his hands.
Louise burst into laughter and leaned forward to kiss him. —I knew you would find me.
—Reckless woman, come on. Let’s leave before the Gestapo is informed.
.
.
.
Louise prepared her bathtub and perfumed the water with the expensive soaps gifted to her by her admirers. She climbed in first, pinning her hair into a high bun to keep it dry. She heard the bathroom door open, and Logan approached the tub with a limp.
Louise glanced at his injured knee and reached toward the first-aid kit.
She could feel the heavy stare of her companion on her back and smiled in amusement.
—Sit down. —she ordered while opening a bottle of alcohol.
Logan obeyed, sitting on the little wooden stool. He already knew the routine and, without waiting for further instructions from the tiny tyrant, began to undress. He remained only in his underwear and socks, the latter because bending his knee enough to reach his feet burned painfully.
Louise noticed that detail and patted the edge of the tub.
—Lift it.
He obeyed. Louise removed the sock and tossed it carelessly into a corner of the bathroom, most likely joining the rest of the socks that would never return to his drawer again. She dampened a cloth with alcohol and lifted her gaze.
—Oh, this is definitely going to burn all the way into your soul.
Logan nodded and held his breath. Louise gripped his ankle to make certain he would not try to escape and pressed the cloth against his skin. Logan exhaled heavily, his fingers tightening around the edge of the stool. His bare chest rose with every breath, and he opened his eyes already certain he would find Louise staring at him.
—Enjoying the view? —Logan asked through a groan.
Louise let out an amused scoff and tilted her head. —And you?
—You already know the answer, Mademoiselle Noir.
Louise gently cleaned the skin around the wound.
—It’s the worst name they’ve assigned me so far.
—Really? I think it suits you perfectly.
—Is that what you think, Monsieur Brown?
Logan smiled, enjoying the feeling of intimacy after risking their lives together. Then he seemed to remember something important and lowered his leg despite Louise’s protests. He rested his hands on the edge of the bathtub and leaned his face closer to hers.
—Next time I tell you to run, do it. —he said seriously. —We came close, Louise.
She cupped her hand, gathering a bit of water and letting it fall over Logan’s shoulder.
—We’re always close, Logan. We don’t get guarantees. I understood that during my training.
—You could ask to go back. No one would be surprised, and nobody would blame you. You’ve given more than most.
—And that’s exactly why I can’t leave yet. Not until the war is over.
—We could spend decades like this.
—No. —Louise said with conviction. —No evil lasts a hundred years.
Louise extended her hand, inviting him to join her.
Logan sighed as he rose with effort. She moved aside to let him climb in, and the water overflowed along with half the soap bubbles. Louise waited for Logan to settle behind her.
She felt his arms pull her against him, and Louise rested her head against his chest.
—One last mission and we’ll leave. We can disappear into the countryside.
Louise hummed softly. —The Gestapo has become stricter outside Paris. We might as well be walking toward our deaths.
Logan pressed his nose against Louise’s neck. —Staying is just as dangerous. After last night…
Louise shifted in the bathtub, causing more water to spill across the bathroom floor. She settled herself on Logan’s lap and traced circles along his shoulders with her fingers.
—Do you truly want to spend our limited time together arguing?
Logan tightened his grip on her waist. —We’re not arguing. We’re having a conversation.
Louise leaned toward him, brushing her lips against his. —We could make better use of our mouths doing something else.
Louise felt Logan’s lips spread into a smile and knew she had won. Soon his hands were gripping her backside as he lifted her. Louise wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.
—Your knee! —Louise remembered aloud.
—The road to heaven is full of obstacles. —he replied while carrying them out of the tub.
Louise laughed the entire way to the bed and enjoyed the attentions of the man above her, who, whenever he looked at her, seemed to fall into a trance, as though he were gazing upon the Venus de Milo…
…The bastard neglected to inform her that he had been summoned alongside other members of the regime back to Germany. Perhaps it was his way of sparing her worry.
But the result was the opposite. Louise spent sleepless nights imagining Logan at the gallows or standing before a firing squad.
The worst part was knowing that searching for him or asking questions about him would only arouse suspicion. So, she pressed her lips together and pretended everything was normal.
Sweet and tormenting waiting.