The departure for Manaus was scheduled for the morning after next, Sunday at 10:30, which left Lucie time to get ready for the trip and especially time to spend with Juliette. Before leaving Paris three hours earlier, she had borrowed Sharko’s cell phone—hers needed to charge—to tell her mother she’d be getting home around 4:30.
It was now 4:45. Although she was very late for the end of the school day, she parked on Boulevard Vauban and ran up to the building. The gates were locked, parents and children having already deserted the place for the weekend. In front of her, the playground was dismally empty. But it didn’t matter. Lucie liked this school; she could have spent hours there, alone, basking in her own childhood memories. She gazed at the stretch of blacktop with delighted eyes.
Then she rushed home to her apartment. For the first time in many months, she was happy to return to that familiar structure with its brick walls, to see the faces of the students who lived in the neighborhood. Was it because of Sharko, their night of lovemaking, their shared confidences? Because she felt she was still able to love, and could tell herself everything wasn’t over? When she opened the door, she saw Marie Henebelle sitting on the couch, watching TV. Toys, dolls, and notebooks from summer vacation were still there, on the floor, scattered about in duplicate. There was a wonderful smell of childhood, laughter, a joyful presence.
Lucie greeted Klark, who slobbered all over her face, then rushed over and kissed her mother on the cheeks.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Lucie . . .”
They gave each other slightly strained smiles.
“I’ll be right back, I’m just going to say hi to you-know-who,” said Lucie.
Marie noticed she was holding a present. One of those create-your-own-fashion kits. In high spirits, Lucie headed toward her daughter’s room. Her heart was pounding. She opened the door and saw Juliette greet her with a lovely smile.
Lucie beamed at her daughter, then noticed the cell phone she had bought, lying in a corner. She picked it up and checked the liquid crystal screen. None of her messages had been listened to.
“Didn’t you get all those messages I left you?”
“Gramma didn’t show me how it worked. I don’t think she likes it.”
“Gramma can be a bit old-fashioned,” Lucie told her daughter with a wink.
She didn’t hear her mother come into the room behind her.
Marie stood there stiffly, a desolate look on her face.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but a policeman from Paris came by this morning. Don’t you think you owe me a few explanations?”
Lucie stood up, frowning, then looked at her daughter with a smile.
“I’ll be back in just a minute, my lamb.”
She went out, closing the door behind her. The two women walked back to the living room.
“What do you mean, a policeman was here?” she said in a whisper. “Who?”
“His name is Bertrand Manien. He came up from Paris. He asked me a lot of questions about Franck Sharko and you. And what happened last year.”
Lucie recognized the name: Sharko had told her about him.
“Manien is Sharko’s former boss. Why did he come here?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t say. He just asked questions.”
“And you answered them, just like that? Our relationship and . . . what happened afterward?”
“What was I supposed to do? He was a detective, and not a very nice one. The odd thing is that he wanted to know all about Clara and Juliette, and how they got along with Sharko.”
Lucie started unpacking her travel bag, deep in thought. Manien had driven all the way from Paris; he’d come here, to her home. He’d been alone . . . so he was investigating unofficially. What was he looking for? Why was he so interested in the twins? What was Sharko concealing from her?
She went to pour herself a Coke from the refrigerator, suddenly feeling less warmly toward the chief inspector: she and he would be having a long talk about this on the plane. For now, she made sure Juliette wasn’t within earshot, collapsed into an armchair, and began telling her mother the broad strokes of her last few days. She described how deep the investigation had sunk in its claws, compelling her to see it all the way to the end—which unfortunately meant having to leave again the day after tomorrow.
“So,” Marie said sarcastically, “what hellhole are you visiting this time?”
“The Amazon.”
Her mother stood up, hands to her face.
“You’re out of your mind. Completely out of your mind.”
Lucie tried to reassure her the best she could.
“I won’t be alone. Franck is coming with me, and we’ll be going with a tour group, with a guide and everything. People go there all the time, you know? Besides, I . . . I must have the e-ticket in my in-box already. Franck is very organized. I’ll be safe with him. We’re just going to land in Manaus, go meet with an anthropologist, and come back. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more? Do you hear what you’re saying?”
Lucie clenched her jaws.
“Yes, I hear it just fine. You can scream and yell all you want, but nothing is going to stop me from going there.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mom, but . . . I’m going to have to ask you to take care of Juliette a few more days.”
Marie sighed through trembling fingers. Tears streamed down her face, and the words, the secret words she had kept buried in herself for so long, tumbled out as if by themselves:
“Take care of Juliette? Don’t you know it’s you I’ve been taking care of for the past year? That it’s you and you alone I’ve been trying to protect from . . . from your head?”
Lucie stared at her in astonishment.
“What are you saying?”
Marie paused for a long moment, trying to get hold of herself.
“I’m saying that everything is exploding in your head, and I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing. So yes, maybe you should go there, to the other end of the world, to find your own answers. Maybe that’s your path to recovery after all.”
“Recovery from what, for God’s sake?”
Without answering, Marie went to fetch her handbag and her shoes, which she set down by the door. She wiped her nose with a handkerchief.
“Do what you have to. I’m going to gather up a few things that have been lying around here too long and go spend some time at home. I’ll come back before you leave to say good-bye and look after . . . your dog.”
In the hallway, Marie choked back a sob. She went into her room, pulled out her small wheeled suitcase, and threw in some jumbled clothes from the closet.
Lucie gave a long sigh at the closed door of Juliette’s room. That damned cell phone was ringing again. It was probably voice mail pinging over and over, until someone finally decided to check the messages.
She opened the door wide.
She walked past the bed and picked up the phone. She erased all her messages without listening to them. Then she put away the fashion kit that was lying on the floor next to a still-wrapped school bag and a pile of untouched objects: a pearl necklace kit; a scooter bought for Christmas, still in its box; a dress encased in plastic, still with its price tag.
There was no child anywhere in the room.
Nor anywhere else in the apartment.