Free The Lady and the Locksmith by Cody Young

Madeleine!” He speaks with real astonishment in his voice and he expects me to know him.
    “No. No. I’m Madison. I’m sorry!” The words are out of my mouth before I realize how dumb it was to tell the guy my real name.
    “Madeleine! I should have known!” He sounds quite angry now.
    It bothers me that he picked a name so similar to my own, but surely this must be a coincidence?
    I shake my head. “I’m not Madeleine.”
    He frowns. He studies my face, searching for signs of recognition.
    “You’re not Madeleine?” His dark eyes seem almost soulful for a moment.
    “No. Sorry.”
    He lets go my arm, and the confident, movie star manner evaporates. I stare into his troubled dark eyes and glimpse something I did not expect to see. Tenderness. Confusion. Sadness. Somewhere inside this know-it-all, seen-it-all, super-cool guy, there is a boy, not much older than myself. But then, he narrows his eyes.
    “My mistake,” he says, in a voice laced with anger and suspicion. Then he inclines his head, giving me a curt, old-fashioned bow. “I apologize.”
    I try to smile, but the whole conversation has been rather unsettling. He seems to expect more, so I give it my best shot. “No problem. Could have happened to anybody!”
    “Jet lag,” he says, tersely.
    I realize that I have succeeded in putting him off balance. Quite a turnaround from just a moment ago. I nod in hearty agreement, though one surreptitious glance at his Calvin Klein face reveals no sign of exhaustion. No lines, no shadows under the eyes, nothing. Just smooth, perfect skin, and glittering dark eyes. He’s as crisp and fresh as that starchy white shirt he’s wearing. Probably travels First Class all the time.
    I tear my gaze away and try to concentrate on the matter in hand: finding my bag. I study the luggage carousel like my life depends on it. I fix my attention on the row of black and navy bags passing by, giving each one serious consideration as if it might turn tartan and shout ‘surprise!’. But all the time I feel his presence – just a few feet away. I try to remain focused on waiting for my bag, but now and again, I steal a sidelong glance at him, and I strongly suspect him of doing the same.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see him get something out of his pocket. I risk taking another look. It’s a little piece of paper, old and yellow. He stares at it, scowls, and then he crumples it up in his fist. I watch as he lets it slip from his fingers and fall to the ground. Quite deliberately.
    A loud American voice startles me. “Madison! There you are!”
    Mrs. Bertorelli. Cross with me. Worried about me.
    I can see from her face that she’s tired and I’ve put her through the wringer. She’s a short woman, a New Yorker, with a wide face and a double chin. She wears her hair in one of those styles that has ‘a lot of volume’ and she must have sprayed it to hell and back so it didn’t deflate while she was on the plane. With hair like that she wouldn’t even need a neck pillow. The color is basically purple, though I’m sure it must have said something like ‘burnished mahogany’ on the box. She’s waving her fat little hands at me, to get my attention. Her rings are glinting in the artificial light. She wears a lot of rings, on all but the third finger of her left hand.
    “Madison, honey. There you are!”
    “Oh. Hi … Sorry!” I don’t say the fatal words ‘forgive me’ this time.
    “We’ve been looking all over for you! Everyone else has gone to find the bus.”
    “I had to go back for my coat, Mrs. B. I left it on the plane. One of the fight attendants went in and got it for me.”
    “I see,” she says, and she reaches out and touches the jacket with her short stubby fingers, as if to make sure I’m not faking. “I guess you can’t go round London in September without a jacket,” she says grudgingly.
    “It’s still August, Mrs. B.,” I remind her gently.
    “You know perfectly well what I mean. Put it