December 2016: later that evening
Paul keeps pace with me as I stomp towards the car park. Soft lighting from the hospital’s windows winks its reproach at me for abandoning my daughter.
“How could you create such a scene?” I yell, a sob strangling my voice. “The damage you’ve caused. Mollie needs me with her.”
“Emma, I’m. . .” His words tail off and he grabs my arm.
I shove him away. “Leave me alone. What part of go away don’t you understand?”
I break into a run through the silent car park, along rows of cars, trying to remember what Lilianne’s car looked like and where I left it.
I glance behind me. Paul is still following, at a distance, and my urge to out run him wavers because I need answers, and only he can give them.
Lilianne’s car is parked on the end of the next row. I lean against it and wait for Paul to catch up.
“Are you going to sit in the car all night?” he asks.
Exhaustion has seeped into my bones and I shake my head.
“I might as well head home. Meet me there—I need you to explain what this craziness is all about. And then you can leave.”
In the fragile sanctuary of Lilianne’s car, I fumble the unfamiliar key into the ignition, start the engine and take the road out of Limoges to Sainte Violette. When I reach the village centre, the houses are shuttered in sleep under the wintry glow of the street lights. I draw up outside Lilianne’s flat and get out of the car. It’s not yet eleven o’clock but the silence is palpable: no music, no television, no voices—too late to ring Lilianne’s doorbell.
I scribble on the back of a supermarket bill, that Mollie was at Eve’s. I use the metal prong of her car key to punch a hole in the note, so I can thread it onto the key ring and drop it in her mail box.
I walk home through the deserted streets, clutching my phone and scrolling through a long list of missed calls from Paul and Henri—and the Limoges police.
Paul is waiting outside the house in the parked Volvo, his head bowed over the steering wheel. As I approach he opens the car door.
“You took so long. I was worried.”
More hollow words. I shrug and head indoors. I need a drink. Scotch isn’t my usual tipple, but it’s the first bottle I see, so I pour myself a stiff measure to chase the chill from my veins. Paul has followed me inside and the dim light from the table lamp casts a shadow across his face.
“Will you let me say sorry?”
“Don’t bother,” I snap.
When I look at Paul, I see a stranger—the man who claimed to love and care for me and our daughter was a weak, dishonest cheat. Inside I feel only emptiness.
“I’ve heard her story—that crazy bitch who stole our daughter. Now tell me yours.”
“Genevieve was blackmailing me,” he begins. “It started after Dorek’s accident. She took control of the company side of the investigation and helped me find a way through. She even falsified documents and statements to the accident investigators.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I was vulnerable, not thinking straight. She invited me for a drink at her house. I drank too much, poured out my worries. I confess—I slept with her. I was so ashamed.” He lowers his gaze.
My stomach tenses. I thought I’d moved beyond feeling but muscle memory remains. It’s easier to hypnotise your mind than fool your body.
Paul takes a gulp of water and wipes his mouth with the heel of his hand. “She became fixated with me. I couldn’t see a way out. I was in too deep.”
“Why didn’t you confide in me?”
He groans. “I felt so helpless. Guilty for the trouble I was bringing on you and the children. My financial problems were stacking up and I was facing a possible prison sentence.”
His excuses are pathetic but his story has more resonance than hers. Whatever Genevieve believed, I doubt he ever intended to leave us, but I’m equally sure he was happy to have sex with her—in London or in France. I’ve seen for myself how hard she is to resist. That expensive maroon top from Comptoir des Cotoniers is still hanging in my wardrobe. Unworn.
“That doesn’t explain why she snatched Mollie and attacked me with a knife.” I roll up my sleeve to show him the rust-brown stain on my arm. The cut looks angry but has stopped weeping. “What do you say about this?”
He blanches, lifts my arm gently and examines the cut, his eyes widening.
“She did that to you? She’ll be sorry for this.”
“For fuck’s sake, Paul. This is a matter for the police. I’ve already made a report and given them her address.”
Then I remember the list of missed calls from the police. I should have waited at the hospital for an officer to make contact.
“They won’t find her at her apartment,” says Paul.
“Why not? Where the hell is she? Are you saying we’re still not safe?” I have a nightmare vision of Eve stalking the hospital corridors.
“It’s not Mollie she’s looking for. It’s me.”
“So tell me where she is and I’ll report it,” I say, through gritted teeth.
Paul gets to his feet. “She’s ordered me to meet her, but I had to speak to you first.”
“Forget it. We’re finished.” I grab his wrists. “Where is she?”
He frees his wrists from my grip, pulls me to him and kisses my cheek.
“Emma, I love you.”
I shove him away. “Too late.”
“That woman’s destroyed my life.” His hands clench into fists. “I’ll kill her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “I don’t care what you do, but she’s dangerous. Dealing with her—that’s for the police.”
I walk to the house phone and place my hand on the receiver.
“Go ahead. Call them.”
“Stop it, Paul. Just tell me where she is!”
“She’s waiting for me. Up at Les Quatre Vents.”