Free The Paris Apartment by Lucy Foley Page A

were neighbors?
     Still, it made an impression.
    The knock comes again. This time I hear the authority in it. I realize my mistake. Of course it isn’t him . . . that would
     be impossible.
    When I open the door, there she stands on the other side: Sophie Meunier. Madame to me. In all her finery: the elegant beige
     coat, the shining black handbag, the gleaming black helmet of her hair, the silk knot of her scarf. She’s part of the tribe
     of women you see walking the smarter streets of this city, with shopping bags over their arms made from stiff card with gilded
     writing, full of designer clothes and expensive objets . A little pedigree dog at the end of a lead. The wealthy husbands with their cinq-à-sept affairs, the grand apartments and white, shuttered holiday homes on the Île de Ré. Born here, bredhere, from old French money—or at least so they would like you to believe. Nothing gaudy. Nothing nouveau . All elegant simplicity and quality and heritage.
    â€œ Oui Madame? ” I ask.
    She takes a step back from the doorway, as though she cannot bear to be too close to my home, as though the poverty of it
     might somehow infect her.
    â€œThe girl,” she says simply. She does not use my name, she has never used my name, I am not even sure she knows it. “The one
     who arrived last night—the one staying in the third-floor apartment.”
    â€œ Oui Madame? ”
    â€œI want you to watch her. I want you to tell me when she leaves, when she comes back. I want to know if she has any visitors.
     It is extremely important. Comprenez-vous? ” Understand?
    â€œ Oui Madame. ”
    â€œGood.” She is not much taller than I am but somehow she manages to look down at me, as though from a great height. Then she
     turns and walks away as quickly as possible, the little silver dog trotting at her heels.
    I watch her go. Then I go to my tiny bureau and open the drawer. Look inside, check the contents.
    She may look down upon me but the knowledge I have gives me power. And I think she knows this. I suspect, even though she
     would never think to admit it, that Madame Meunier is a little afraid of me.
    Funny thing: we share more than meets the eye. Both of us have lived in this building for a long time. Both of us, in our
     own way, have become invisible. Part of the scenery.
    But I know just what sort of woman Madame Sophie Meunier really is. And exactly what she is capable of.

Jess
    â€œHello?” I shout. “Can anyone hear me?”
    I can feel the walls swallowing the sound, feel how useless it is. I shove at the door with all my strength, hoping the weight
     of my body might break the lock. Nothing: I might as well be ramming myself against a concrete wall. Panicking now, I pummel
     the wood.
    Shit. Shit .
    â€œHey!” I shout, desperately now. “HEY! HELP ME!”
    The last two words. A sudden flashback to another room. Shouting at the top of my lungs, shouting until my voice went hoarse,
     but it never felt loud enough . . . there was no one coming. Help me help me help me someone help she’s not . . .
    My whole body is trembling.
    And then suddenly the door is opening and a light flashes on. A man stands there. I take a step back. It’s Antoine, the guy
     I just watched casually smashing a bottle against a side table—
    No . . . I can see now that I’m wrong. It was the height, maybe, and the breadth of the shoulders. But this guy is younger
     and in the weak light I can see that his hair is lighter, a dark golden color.
    â€œ Ça va? ” he asks. Then, in English: “Are you OK? I came down to get my laundry and I heard—”
    â€œYou’re British!” I blurt. As British as the Queen, in fact: a proper, plummy, posh-boy accent. A little like the one Ben
     adopted after he went to live with his new parents.
    He’s looking at me like he’s waiting for some kind of