As Alex draped his arm around Zelda’s shoulders, she tensed, her muscles involuntarily stiffening at his touch. “I feel horrible,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “I really do.”
They kept up this uneasy truce as they walked down Mt. Auburn Street, away from the bustle of Harvard Square. Zelda had been avoiding Alex for weeks now, and the tension of their fractured friendship hung like an unspoken accusation between them. Today was the Fourth of July, the first time it’d passed unnoticed since the Declaration of Independence was signed. Empty riverbank stretched alongside them, devoid of the usual hot dog carts and picnickers and children with their pinwheels. Looking around, though, she couldn’t help but see ghosts.
She halted abruptly as they reached the closed doors of the bookstore, gently extricating herself from his grasp. The sign above announced Bound To Please’s impending reopening under new management, but the promise of renewal did little to lift her spirits.
Turning, she continued to walk, her steps steady and deliberate.
Alex rushed to follow her. “I should’ve spoken up.”
“You should have,” she agreed, her tone firm.
He issued what seemed, to her, like a rather theatrical sigh. “We both made mistakes, Zelda. I made mistakes.” Stopping again, he glanced down at her, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “Before you decide that that’s unforgivable and I’m irredeemable, please, just hear me out.”
She couldn’t see what mistakes she’d possibly made, here, unless being arrested and then repeatedly terrorized by a man who set her hackles up whenever he stepped into the room was somehow her fault. Or maybe he was referring to her supposed secret life as an informant for the Gestapo? Alex acted like the Sturmbannführer was some kind of romantic rival but, apart from being a lunatic, he was twice her age. Crossing her arms, she fixed him with a dark look. “Fine, go ahead.”
Alex ran a hand nervously through his hair. “I’m still your best friend, right?”
She hesitated, suddenly uncertain. “I hope so, but….”
“You agreed to meet with me,” he pointed out, “so you must have some interest in what I have to say.”
Her glare deepened at his presumption. “Are you sure you can trust me?” The words escaped her lips before she could filter them, a mix of frustration and indignation bubbling beneath the surface. She hated his demanding tone, as if she owed him something, especially when he was the one who’d thrown her under the bus. But she also couldn’t ignore the fact that he really was a victim—of Voight’s, and of this oppressive regime. Despite her noblest intentions, her words came out with an edge. “I thought that only certain people were allowed to hate fascism. Or have you and Marta changed your minds?”
Alex thrust his finger toward her face. “Stop that!”
“Stop what?” she retorted.
“You’re making us sound like them!” he huffed.
“Lately,” she replied icily, “I’m not sure I see a difference.”
Alex faltered, his defensiveness dissipating.
They continued on, all the thoughts that neither of them had the courage to voice forming a chasm that neither of them knew how to bridge.
Stepping into Longfellow Park felt like entering the Secret Garden, a hidden oasis in the middle of Cambridge. The fragrance of lilacs was long gone, but the shaded area still offered a pleasant respite from the city’s woes. She settled onto the low wall surrounding an interior courtyard, breathing in calm. Longfellow House itself watched over them, from the other side of the street, its gracious Georgian architecture somehow menacing even in the sunshine. She and Alex were in the shadow of a Nazi stronghold, but no place in Massachusetts was really safe—and she refused to let Voight, or anyone, steal her cherished sanctuary.
Alex moved towards Longfellow’s bust, his gaze fixed on the stern bronze features of the man who’d first taught Zelda to love poetry. “The world isn’t divided between those who never upset us and the bad guys,” he murmured, after a long pause. “Even the good guys get it wrong sometimes.”
She responded with a noncommittal noise, not wanting to relitigate the same tired discussion about how she should really be more tolerant of other peoples’ prejudices—especially toward her. “How’s your eye?” she asked, attempting to steer the conversation to safer ground.
“It’s healing,” he assured her, with a faint smile. “Slowly but surely.”
She flashed a small, tentative smile back. “Good.”
Joining her on the ersatz bench, his expression turned pensive as he watched a pair of robins hunting for worms. She’d just started to let her guard down, thinking the danger had passed, when he turned. The eye not hidden beneath a bandage welled with grief and self-reproach. “All I’m asking for is a chance to fix this friendship,” he pleaded. “We’ve been through so much together since elementary school, I think I deserve that much.”
Her heart ached at his words, and she wished more than anything that she could tell him what he wanted to hear, but he’d never felt more like a stranger. “You should heed your own advice,” she chided gently, her hand reaching out to touch him in a gesture of support that felt empty. “I’m not your enemy, Alex. Even though we might not be together, I swear, I’d never help Voight.”
Instead of the relief she’d hoped for, a shadow passed over his features as he absorbed her statement. “Do you ever think about giving us another chance?”
She resisted the urge to point out that the us he’d referred to had been a couple of ill-advised hookups during the height of the invasion. First her father had died, and then her grandmother, and then half of her high school class in the Battle of Boston Harbor. She’d needed comfort—and a distraction. But she’d thought he’d understood, that he’d needed the same things; she’d never wanted to hurt him, or lead him on, and seeing the hope on his face made her horribly guilty. “I do,” she allowed, wondering at the wisdom of the admission. “But, deep down, I know it wouldn’t work. We’d only end up hurting each other all over again.”
A grim pall enveloped them, again, after that.
“I had no idea how long I was in that cell.” His voice was strained with the anguish of his memories. “I had a bed, a bucket, and a slot in the door where sometimes soup appeared.” He took a moment to collect himself, before continuing. “I didn’t eat it at first, I was afraid it’d been poisoned.”
“Alex….” She trailed off, knowing that nothing she could say would begin to make up for what he’d endured.
“I counted four soups until the door opened again.” His expression hardened. “At first, he was polite.”
“Voight?” she prompted.
Alex nodded, his jaw clenching with barely suppressed rage. “He brought me into a small room, where he interviewed me. Offered me a cigarette.” That last detail came with a mirthless bark of laughter that chilled her soul. “He asked me a lot of questions. About Marta. About you.”
“I swear I didn’t know,” she protested, the words a desperate attempt to absolve herself of her growing guilt. Voight had attacked Alex before he’d brought her into his office, for that first conversation, before she’d even known where Alex was. Even so, a vision flashed in her mind’s eye of sitting with the Sturmbannführer at that stupid lunch and how—for a traitorous split-second—their shared dislike of Klaus had almost made him seem like an ally.
But Alex wasn’t listening. “Then came the tub. He removed his cufflinks, can you imagine that?” His gaze returning to some far point, he shook his head. “After, he laid his jacket over the back of a chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Who knew that all the devils of Hell were so fastidious.”
Somewhere, in the distance, a siren wailed.
“When he got sick of almost drowning me in ice water,” Alex finished, “that was when he tied me up. The Gestapo is infamous for adapting what it has on hand, and he used an archive rod. Which, he informed me, was almost as common as the good old-fashioned boot. But he preferred his fist.”
Zelda thought about Thomas, lying in a pool of his own blood.
Alex rubbed at his temple, a grimace of pain contorting his features. “Voight told me I had you to thank, for my eye,” he added, insinuation and blame lacing each syllable.
Zelda bristled at the allegation, once again, that she’d been somehow complicit. He fixed her with a penetrating stare, his resentment only matched by his suspicion. Refusing to back down, she held his gaze with defiance. “Voight told me some things, too,” she countered. “Like that the resistance is killing children. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
The shock on her supposed best friend’s face was sickly satisfying. “No!” he exclaimed, recoiling as if struck. “We’re not the ones killing anyone, don’t be disgusting.”
Her anger flared at his dismissive reaction, gritting her teeth as she fought to keep her own anger under control. “Me? I’m not doing anything, here, except trying to figure out what’s going on!”
“What’s going on is that that bastard is lying,” Alex growled, his eyes narrowing into slits of distrust. “To both of us.”
She longed to share Alex’s certainty—to trust him completely, as she once had. But as many nights as she’d lain awake trying to convince herself that Voight was lying, he simply had no motive. The Gestapo’s unchecked authority meant that he could arrest whomever he wanted, without technicalities like proof. Moreover, something in how he’d looked at her when he’d asked for her help had confirmed her worst fears: whatever the actual facts, the Sturmbannführer truly believed that Bill Smith was responsible. After his own sick fashion, he wanted justice.
“He’s not lying,” she scolded. “And neither am I.”
Reaching out, Alex grabbed her arms. “He’s using you, Zelda.”
She struggled to break free, but his hold only tightened. “He’s using you, Alex!”
“I was upset, at Marta’s,” he insisted, his fingers digging into her flesh. “I did the wrong thing, and I’ve admitted that. But Zelda, what we have is more important than one mistake!”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
“Let go of me,” she demanded, her voice low and firm.
“You belong with me,” Alex pleaded, his tone wavering between desperation and demand. “We’re meant for each other, can’t you see that?”
Panic and confusion surged within her as she finally managed to push him away and stood up. “I need to go home,” she asserted, her voice shaking. She couldn’t understand what’d just happened, or how; Alex’s abrupt shift had struck her like a thunderbolt, completely out of the blue.
Turning to leave, her heart hammering in her chest, she took a step toward the park’s entrance. But before she could move any further, Alex seized her once again. He was treating her like a toy that, to his shock and horror, had somehow developed a will of its own and had to be corrected; his sense of ownership was crushing, as he mashed his lips against hers. A wave of revulsion washed over her, mingled with fear and disbelief. This wasn’t the Alex she’d grown up with; this was a distorted shadow of entitlement and resentment, fueled by an insidious belief in his own righteousness.
“Alex,” she gasped, recoiling. “Stop!”
“I’d do anything for you,” he seethed, his voice raw with passion and acrimony. “But you’ve treated me like I’m just a safety net, a convenient option until someone better comes along!”
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she struggled to defend himself. The weight of his denunciation pressed down on her like a leaden shroud, pressing the air from her lungs. “It’s not like that,” she whispered miserably, her voice barely audible above the rush of pounding blood in her head.
“I love you!” he declared, his voice cracking on the last word.
Her heart clenched painfully; each syllable felt like a dagger twisting in her chest. “I never asked for this.”
“I thought you were finally giving us a chance,” he pressed on, his voice growing increasingly desperate, “but then he showed up!”
A choked sob escaped her lips as she glanced around the park, hoping against hope that someone else would appear and he’d have to stop. The cool breeze felt like dozens of icy fingers, making her skin crawl. “That’s not what happened,” she protested weakly, still in denial that Alex had turned on her like this—and castigating herself for not recognizing the warning signs sooner. Every fiber of her being screamed for escape, but she felt immobilized by fear and confusion, unsure of how to extricate herself from his increasingly crushing grip.
“You’re always hanging around him!” Alex’s tone was accusatory, his eyebrows furrowed in uncomprehending rage. His voice rose to a fever pitch, drowning out the distant sounds of the park. “There’s no reason to, other than that there’s something going on!”
“What?” Zelda’s voice was incredulous, her eyes widening in shock as she gaped at this stranger in Alex’s body. “How could you even think that?”
“Who knows,” Alex taunted, his words suffused with bitterness. His jaw clenched in resentment, muscles twitching with pent-up anger as he shook her back and forth. “Maybe it’s the boots? Some women have a thing for black leather. He’s got power and authority and that’s what you want, because you’re sick of being poor and downtrodden with the rest of us. Pick the alpha male, sure, ignore nice guys like me, because we care about things like morals and values. Who gives a crap if he beats me half to death, I bet he’s great in bed!”
Zelda wanted desperately to slap him, but he still had her trapped. Her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. “Women want more than status and wealth! Voight is dangerous, and—
“Then why do you always defend him?” Alex’s chest heaved, like he’d just run a mile. Sweat glistened on his brow, his face contorted with frenzied wrath. “Why do you always take his side?”
“I don’t!” she exploded, her voice cracking with emotion. “You’re letting jealousy and insecurity cloud your—
Before she could finish, Alex forced his tongue into her mouth, overwhelming her with a sense of violation and dread. She thrashed against him in a frenzied effort to break free of this prison, but she was neither tall nor strong and terror made even the simplest movement feel like swimming through molasses. Alex’s hands moved up to the back of her head and a split second later he was on the ground, blood spurting from his nose. His roar of bewilderment echoed in the air as Zelda gawped at him, her reality shattered into confusion.
Then a voice spoke, calm and cultured. “I believe that the lady said no.”
She whirled around, nearly colliding with Voight.
“You!” Alex hissed. He shuffled backward on his elbows, his eyes locked on Voight’s, while Zelda’s gaze flicked nervously between them. The Sturmbannführer might as well have been a statue, save for the fiery intensity in his eyes. “Herr Woods,” he greeted, surveying Alex with undisguised scorn. “What a pleasure to see you again, and so soon.”
Alex’s lips moved, but no sound emerged.
“Too bad about your eye, though,” Voight remarked casually, though his gaze remained piercing. “All that effort to fix it might now come to nothing. Sad.”
“Leave me alone!” Alex spat, blood trickling down his chin. “And leave her alone!”
“No,” Voight countered, his tone flat. He spoke to Zelda, next, without turning. “Come here,” he ordered.
Stunned, she complied without a word.
Alex blinked rapidly, struggling to comprehend what he was seeing. “Zelda!”
She felt like she was in a dream as she took one hesitant step and then another, almost falling before Voight reached out and grabbed her elbow. His thin, patrician fingers had a grip like iron and it should’ve felt more revolting than Alex’s—but, to her own alarm, she felt safer in that moment with a jackbooted thug. He was the last person she’d have expected to come to her aid, but he had.
“Wait,” Alex interjected, his voice sharp and accusatory. She watched with a sinking feeling as his eyes widened, a new and terrible suspicion taking hold. “Did you lure me here, Zelda?” he demanded, his words laced with venom. “To—what? Punish me, for standing up for myself?”
Her mouth fell open in shock. “What?”
“You are with him!” Alex cried. “The man who almost killed me!”
“If I wanted you dead,” Voight retorted coldly, “you’d be dead.”
Alex’s gaze bore into Zelda with a newfound intensity, as if peeling back layers of illusion to reveal the demon that wore a woman’s face. “Marta was right, about everything,” he muttered under his breath, the words laden with loathing. It was as if the revelation of her true nature had shattered something within him, leaving behind only fragments of disbelief and hurt. She wanted to protest her innocence, to deny the accusation burning in his eyes, but she couldn’t—not while standing there next to the man who’d ruined his life. She deserved his condemnation, came the crushing realization; she was every bit the traitor he’d accused her of being, and more.
Voight’s expression soured. “Enough of this nonsense.”
Spinning around, he dragged Zelda through the park, the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of birds formed a surreal contrast to the chaotic scene; the sylvan setting seemed to mock the fact that her world had just vanished from beneath her feet. She couldn’t shake the feeling, either, that she’d abandoned Alex. His look of hatred had been burned into her memory like a brand and, stumbling along, she knew she’d see it whenever she closed her eyes for a long time. Part of her wanted to turn back, to confront him, to somehow make things right—but the grip on her arm was unrelenting, pulling her further away from him with each step, until finally there was nothing left when she glanced over her shoulder but a dense thicket of trees.
A Porsche 911 sat directly in front of Longfellow House, its sleek black exterior gleaming in the sunlight. Voight wrenched the passenger side door open and stood there, waiting. She hesitated, rubbing the point on her elbow where his fingertips had left an imprint. Unease gnawed at her, a persistent voice whispering that there were strings attached to his unexpected act of protection. At the same time, however, no one had stood up for her like this since her father’s passing.
“Get your ass in the car,” he snapped, switching to German. “Or I’ll toss it in.”
She thought about running, knew that there was no point, and gave up. “Fine.”
Her assent sounded infantile, not dignified, like he’d caught her having a tantrum instead of being assaulted. She hated that, and despised even more that she was following her tormentor’s orders. As she sank into the seat, the black leather upholstery seemed to swallow her whole, suffocating her with its oppressive embrace. She jumped when Voight slammed her door shut, the sound reverberating through the car like a death knell. He slipped in beside her seconds later, his presence suffusing the air with an icy chill. The engine roared to life, its vibrations coursing through her body like electric shocks, and he swung out from the curb with a predatory grace.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” she said acidly, as she tried to disguise her mounting fear.
“I would prefer not continually rescuing you,” Voight agreed, as dispassionate as ever. “Especially from your own stupidity. Although that was a rare moment of insight, I think, from Herr Woods.”
Her brows knit together, defiance warring with confusion. “Meaning?”
“You did arrange a tryst with him directly in front of my office,” Voight replied coolly, his gaze flicking momentarily to her before returning to the road ahead.
Rubbing her temples, she fought the urge to roll her eyes at his insinuation. “That was no tryst,” she scoffed, her intensifying headache and her exasperation with men existing at all fueling her anger.
Voight’s lips quirked in a sardonic smile. “I sometimes walk down to the garden during lunch. I like to be alone. Although I’m fairly certain that all of Cambridge heard you screaming at the man.”
“He’s just a friend. Was just a friend,” she corrected herself, the words like ashes on her tongue.
“He doesn’t seem to agree,” Voight observed, a faint hint of skepticism in his voice.
“I refuse to be held responsible for what anyone else thinks!” she fumed, her outrage so overwhelming that she could barely breathe. She was fed up with the constant scrutiny, the relentless judgment, the burden of being held accountable for first Alex’s assumptions and then his! Just because she acknowledged a man’s presence didn’t mean she was inviting his judgments—or worse.
“You’re not responsible at all,” Voight countered, his gaze darkening as he shifted gears and accelerated, the sleek black sportscar devouring the distance with effortless ease. His tone held an edge of reproach, as though she were some toddler who had to be reprimanded for not taking turns on the playground.
“I don’t know why you bothered to stop him, then,” she mumbled, resenting this reminder of her youth and inexperience. “All men are the same, say hello and you’re leading them on.” Glowering out the window, she snorted. “Ah, the friend zone, where men lament being treated like fellow human beings as though it’s some underhanded trick. Truly, a modern tragedy.”
“Why do you care what happens to him,” Voight asked, his tone deceptively casual, “if you aren’t involved?”
“Because I’m not a psychopath like you,” she groused, not bothering to hide her scorn. “I don’t torture people for fun.”
Voight’s gaze hardened, annoyance tightening his features. “Herr Woods would disagree.”
Crossing her arms, she fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I wouldn’t fool around with Alex if he were the last man on earth,” she assured him, cringing inwardly at how her feelings had once been so different. “Believe me, the species would die out.”
“So you keep saying,” he remarked, sounding unconvinced.
Biting her lip, she glanced at him. “I only met with Alex in the first place, because I thought he wanted to apologize for last time.” The confession stung, revealing the depths of her naïveté.
Voight turned sharply, his expression softening with concern. “Last time?”
She fixed her gaze on the world rushing past her window, so she wouldn’t have to face that searching stare. “Next time,” she added quietly, “he probably will shave my head.”
An uncomfortable silence settled between them as they sped down the road, the distant hum of the engine and the rhythmic thud of tires against asphalt filling the air. Outside, the landscape transformed from urban sprawl to dense forest, the towering trees casting long shadows over the winding road. Her heart raced as the darkness of the woods seemed to swallow them whole.
Sitting there, trapped in a car costing twice what most people made in a year, she felt a sense of unreality wash over her. Whatever happened now, she couldn’t control it—any more than she’d been able to influence her friends’ collective decision that her heritage automatically made her a Nazi. She’d fallen down a rabbit hole, where her best efforts amounted to nothing and logic was a dirty word. She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat growing with each passing mile. “Are you taking me somewhere to kill me and dump my body?”
“No,” Voight replied lightly, ignoring the resignation in her voice. “I’m taking you out to lunch.”