CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The chunk of marble shattered on the grave beside Rachel’s face as she continued to squirm and fight. She clawed at the man, attempted to bite him, flung her arms and hands uselessly, tried to kick him.
A heavy hand slapped against the side of her face and then he was pulling at her satchel. The strap was caught around her shoulder, but he continued yanking at it with frightening strength.
He said several words in a thick French accent that she couldn’t decipher.
He was young—perhaps twenty—with hazel eyes and a nose hooked and broken. His jawline shaven but with the shadow of a persistent, heavy beard.
The leather strap of her satchel jerked roughly down her arm, twisting the skin of her forearm before it was wrenched free.
“My laptop!”
Rachel attempted to rise
