*Anaïs*
As I walk through the narrow, winding streets of Montmartre, my heart races with nervous anticipation. It has now been three days since I woke up with no recollection of how I got home that night after dinner with Griff. The memory of that evening slides into a haze, filled with images of rats and a strange sense of unease. I have tried finding a number or other way of contacting Griff, but to no avail.
I clutch the strap of my purse tightly, my eyes darting from one street corner to the next, searching for Henri’s atelier. Griff had introduced me to the famous painter that night, that I do remember, and Henri had called me yesterday, asking if I could come in for the first sitting. He still wants to paint me, an honor that both thrills and terrifies me.
I haven’t told Mathis a
