A few hours ago, I saw him duck out the door. He hesitated when he saw me, an awkward, unfathomable plea in his eyes. I turned away. If he wanted Elise, he could have her. At least that’s what I told myself.
Now he’s back from wherever he’s been, wearing that furtive expression again as he slips down the murky flight of stairs that leads to the cellar. I know where he’s going—and why. It’s the perfect place for a rendezvous, dark and secluded with its maze of crates and boxes. The thought of him meeting Elise there, catching them together, turns my limbs to jelly. And yet, I can’t help myself. I wait a few seconds, then follow him down.
I hold my breath, watching as he moves to the bottom of the stairs, then disappears into the murky warren below. After a few moments, he switches on a pocket torch. The beam makes him easier to follow, and I keep to the shadows, winding through the labyrinth of crates and cartons. Cabbages. Turnips. Potatoes. Ersatz coffee. Even crates of cheap red wine. Finally, his footsteps go quiet and I hear the faint jangle of keys, then the groan of dry hinges.
I creep forward again, close enough to see a dingy slice of light appear between the open door and its frame. I can’t see much through the opening, a naked bulb overhead and a small cot with a blanket folded at the foot.
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?