The Blonde Identity: A Novel

She didn’t know how far she walked. Or how long she walked. Or even why she kept walking when the wind was so cold and the sky was so dark that it felt like even the moon was sleeping.

But she had to keep walking. Moving. Plodding along because the only thing scarier than walking was stopping. Because if she stopped they might catch up with her—either the men on the motorcycles . . . Or Mr. Hot Guy . . . Or even her own thoughts . . .

So she kept walking. And made a mental list:

Sure, Mr. Hot Guy had called her Alex, but she didn’t have a last name. Or a middle name. Or even a real first name. Was she an Alexandra or Alexa or Alexis? What did her mother call her when she was in trouble? What did the teachers say on the first day of school and then she’d have to say, actually, I go by Alex? Alex had no idea. Which wasn’t as worrisome as—

All she knew for certain was that her head hurt and her stomach growled and yet the thought of eating made her belly ache for entirely different reasons.

So she kept walking, grateful for the snow that was falling in thick waves, blocking out the glow of the streetlights and filling up her footprints almost as soon as she made them. But she also cursed the snow because her boots were definitely not made for walking and her toes felt like icicles that might break off at any moment.

Her knees were bleeding, and her thighs burned; there was a hole in her black tights and a stitch in her side, and even her collarbones hurt. Her collarbones! Two bones that served absolutely no purpose beyond making a girl look great in boatneck sweaters.

So Alex leaned against a rough brick wall in a narrow alley and tried to focus on what she did know.

For a moment, Alex wondered if maybe she should look for a police station or a hospital? Maybe she should lie back down and finish that snow angel? Maybe she should dig herself a snow cave where the temperature would never drop below thirty-two degrees (because she didn’t know her own name but she’d somehow pulled that fun fact from her disastrously empty brain).

But, most of all, Alex wanted to cry. Because the one thing she was sure of was that she was having a very bad day, and it was probably going to get worse. So crying seemed okay under the circumstances.

Really, the only bright side was when she realized that her dress had pockets. Because (a) dresses with pockets are the best dresses, everybody knows that. And (b) her pockets contained a tube of lip balm, a few euros’ worth of heavy coins, and a black plastic card that looked like a room key. But, sadly, there wasn’t a hotel name on it anywhere—just a small golden C—which wasn’t any help at all.

Oh, and there was also a crumpled tissue that she dug out and used to dry her runny nose.

It was still snowing, even though she was pretty sure it rarely snowed in Paris. But it wasn’t as hard now, and the streets were suddenly too bright for the middle of the night. Shops were closed and apartments were dark, but the streetlights reflected off that pure white stillness, casting the city of light in an otherworldly glow. And Alex hated it. Partly because of Mr. Hot Guy and whoever else was chasing her. But also because there was a comfort in the darkness, of being lost in the storm. Isn’t that why people go to Paris? Why they take long walks down unfamiliar streets, roaming for hours, trying to lose themselves? Trying to forget?

It was terrifying that, eventually, she was going to have to try to remember.

Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed. Overhead, she heard a sickening crack and a big patch of snow slid off a steep roof and landed with a splat a few yards behind her. And still there was the low buzzing hum of the motorcycles circling closer and closer.

And closer.

She darted into the doorway of an empty restaurant. The window was a mirror in the darkness, and Alex gasped at the sight of the woman who stared back. Unfamiliar hair on an unfamiliar face, a bruise growing on her temple. Tearstained cheeks and grimy fingers, clothes torn and stained with blood that may or may not have been her own.

Alex was looking at herself. But she was also looking at a stranger. And the tiny smidge of hope that she’d been carrying for the past two hours faded away, because her memory didn’t come back with her reflection. Not a speck. Not even a twinge. And Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that the truth had fallen out along the way—was lying in the snow somewhere, waiting for a thaw.

On the other side of the darkened glass, a television flickered and glowed, and Alex watched as headlines filled the screen.

ALERTE! Alert.

DANGEREUSE! Dangerous.

N’APPROCHEZ! Do not approach.

“Ooh! I speak French!” Alex exclaimed, entirely too pleased with herself. But after hours of nothing, that felt like something. She wanted to make a T-shirt that said I SPEAK FRENCH. She wanted to stroll up to the first person she saw and stick out her hand and say, Hi! I’m Alex, and I’m bilingual! She wanted to pretend that her memory might come back as soon as she started thinking in the right language. But the past stayed blank, and the present stayed cold, and the future loomed before her, totally empty.

When the television changed, it took her a moment to realize what she was watching. It must have been some kind of surveillance footage because the picture was dark and grainy. It looked like some kind of fight. No. An attack. The word fight implies an even playing field, but this was one woman against a dozen men.

Except, Alex realized, the woman was winning. Punching and kicking and throttling men twice her size. What’s French for badass? Alex was just starting to wonder, when the picture froze and it was like an echo.

Because the face in the dark window blended with the face on the screen, like a before and an after. The hair on the screen was red—not blonde. She didn’t have any bruises and the clothes were different. But the face . . . the face was exactly the same, and for a moment, Alex couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. She couldn’t even think until her brain translated the words beneath the picture: Fugitive. Armed. Extremely dangerous.

And Alex said the only thing that made any sense at all: “I’m a spy!”