"You are keeping secrets as well?" he asked, raising his eyebrow. "You are a hypocrite, aren't you? What have you been keeping from me?"
I looked away from him, unable to look him in the eye as I told him of my precious secrets and the horrible lies I had told him. "I am who you think I am: Elizabeth Cohen; and I did, in fact, lose my family to the Nazis."
He nodded.
"A good friend had come here a few months ago, and he told me what he had done to my family's killer — you. That scar on your forehead is really because of what you did to my family. I spent a few months perfecting my American speech so that I could come and kill you, making you think I was one of the Americans who gave you that scar."
"How are you not American?" he interrupted. "You speak like an American and you have the same accent as some of the Americans I've met."
I cleared my throat. "I'm really from Ireland," I answered in my native Irish accent. "I spent a long time with a friend who had no accent, and he taught me how to speak like an American would."
He seemed to understand. I helped him button his shirt and I straightened his tie.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"At least I didn't lie to you," he answered, an icy sting in his voice. "I'm going out to think it over. I'll be back in an hour or two." He pulled on a coat and a fedora.
"Don't go," I pleaded quietly.
He looked down at me. "Don't leave, Elizabeth. I promise you, I'll be back." He smiled weakly and kissed my forehead, then proceeded down the stairs.
At least he'll come back. He seems like he'd keep his promises, I told myself. I waited a second before going down the stairs, wrapped in a blanket. I stood by the window and watched him walk to the road. He turned around to look at me; shaking his head, he stuck his hands in his coat pocket and walked down the road. When he was out of sight, I decided it was safe to explore the house; I started by looking in his closet for clothes.
In his bedroom I found some clothes; a blouse and a skirt. I put them on, despite the odd feeling of wearing another woman's clothes. Obviously he's a ladies' man.
I started in the basement, finding that it was more of a bomb shelter than a real basement. The first floor was comprised of a parlor, a sitting room, a bedroom, a dining room and a kitchen. When I scoped the second floor, I found three bedrooms, another sitting room and a small library.
I walked around the library, looking at all the famous titles he kept. Upon further examination, I found there were books in fluent English, German, French, and Italian. He's smart. If he's read all of these, that means he's fluent in four languages!
In the corner of my eye, I noticed a wall with a doorknob. It was unusual; it was obvious there was no door there. It piqued my curiosity. I pulled on the doorknob and the wall opened to reveal another staircase. I hesitated, debating whether or not to go up; my curiosity got the better of me, as always, and I ventured up the stairs.