A Sunday afternoon, the crowds, and her father’s arm through hers, holding her tight. His nervous talk, none of his usual jokes about art. She remembered sitting in the cafe, looking out to the Palais Royal fountain, then blowing out the candle on a slice of chocolate
“She wanted to see you.”
Aimee stared, speechless. And the walls seemed to shift. Her lip quivered. This talk of her mother . . . was it true?
Morbier’s shoulders slumped. “She’d been deported, banned from reentry. It was dangerous for her. If she was in the crowd, he didn’t see her.”
“That’s it.”
She found her voice, a whisper. “How did Papa know?”
“An arrangement, letters. He tore them up. End of story.”
His words cut her to the bone. She blinked, determined not to let him see her cry. Her mother had risked her freedom and had been in contact with her father . . . yet he’d never told her.
“I’ll question Gabriel,” Morbier said. “No promises.”
Her throat tightened and she nodded. Morbier looked even older now.
She felt numb. She’d think about this later. She made her feet move. Now she had to protect Stella.
AIMEE SQUARED HER shoulders and nodded to the policewoman behind the desk. She crossed the worn marble floor that smelled, as always, of industrial-strength pine-scented cleaning fluid. Each tap of her heels echoed off the limestone walls. Orla’s face in the morgue, an injured Nelie on the video, Stella’s flushed peach cheeks, and her own mother’s almost forgotten face spun in her head.
A few Commissariat casement windows were lit, and a blue-uniformed
But she couldn’t think straight. She’d been rocked to her core, set adrift, as the memories flooded her. She hunched down against a stone wall. The lone pigeon pecking on the gravel ignored her. She covered her face with her hands, tears wet her cheeks. Her mother had risked everything for a chance to see her and she hadn’t even known. Her father had never told her. Nor Morbier.
And Nelie . . . what was she risking to save her baby?
She was still overcome, her thoughts jumbled, when she heard the whoosh of a street-cleaning truck. She had no idea how long she’d sat there but her face and jacket were wet with tears. Stella, she reminded herself, she had to get back to Stella.
Aimee grew aware of the cell phone ringing in her pocket.
She answered it, wiping her nose. She heard loud buzzing.
“Where are you?” Claude’s concerned voice was breaking up into static. “I’m worried . . . looked for you . . .”
He’d
“I made a deal and got Krzysztof immunity; why didn’t you help me convince him to stay?” she asked. Why did you run away? she wanted to ask him, but she bit back the words.
“I couldn’t, Aimee,” Claude said. The line had cleared. ”I’m involved with the eco freedom trail. People depend on me, a whole network. I cannot get involved with the
A chain of safe houses for ecoterrorists on the lam, she realized. But then why wouldn’t Nelie have used it? Or maybe she had?
“Do you mean Nelie’s there—”
“No,” he interrupted. “She’s gone underground but no one knows where.”
The reason must have to do with Stella and the ink marks on the skin under her arm. She remembered Krzysztof’s words—Nelie had told him there was a doctor’s report
“Let me talk to Krzysztof.”
“He jumped off my bike and ran into the Metro. He said he’ll take care of it his way,” Claude told her. “I couldn’t stop him.”
He, too, had run like a scared rabbit.
The line was clearer now.
“Aimee, are you all right? What’s happened?” he asked, breathless.
“Why did this
In the silence she could hear the sputtering of the motorcycle engine.
“Who knows?
“France2 has news footage showing Nelie and Orla at the demonstration.”
“You saw it?”
“But there was no baby with them,” she said.
“The march erupted into chaos. But . . . ,”
Claude paused.
“He didn’t work alone, right? Now you may be in as much danger as Nelie and her baby.”
He was right.
“Gabriel didn’t believe that we would give him the disc; he wanted the baby. Otherwise why did he show up?” she said. “But at least we accomplished something: he’s headed across the river to La Sante.”
“What do you mean?” Something had changed in Claude’s voice.
“Gabriel skipped a meeting with his parole officer, so he’ll be locked up,” she said.
Her head ached, the muscles in her legs had cramped, and tiredness flooded her body.
“Claude,” she said. “I have to go.”
“You’ve gotten under my skin,” he said, his voice low and hesitant. “I’ve never met anyone like you. We’re alike, you know . . . we share so much.”
She wished she weren’t attracted to him.
“Stay at my place. At least I know you’ll be safe with me,” he said. ”I’ll make sure of that.”
She pictured his warm studio, imagined his arms around her, his musky sandalwood scent. But with Rene and Saj working on the incriminating files and the babysitter having to leave, her duty was clear. She had to care for Stella; she had to protect her.
“
“Promise me you’ll come to stay with me?”
How could she? With Stella?
“Aimee, you asked me to trust you. Now I’m asking you to trust me.”
“I want to.”
“Then you’ll come?” he breathed into the phone.
“I don’t know, Claude.”
Before she could change her mind, she turned off the phone. Aimee stood and made her tired legs walk. A block later she found a cruising taxi. She collapsed against the leather seat and then realized her wallet was empty.
At the Paribas cash machine, with the taxi waiting on the curb, she took out half of what Vavin had given her. She had to pay Mathilde overtime. They’d barely limp by for the rest of the month unless Rene worked wonders and snagged the Fontainebleau account.
Conscious of the blur of the street lamps on the quai, the almost-deserted, rain-chased streets, the hint of dawn in the faint ribbon lightening the sky, she leaned back. At least she could tip the taxi driver who’d gotten her to Martine’s in record time.
She took a deep breath, trudged up the red-carpeted stairs, and rang Martine’s bell.
Martine opened the door In a leopard-print silk robe, cigarette dangling from her mouth, relief in her eyes. “You’ve got more lives than a cat! You scared me, Aimee. I thought—”
