Earlier today, I had a plan.
I asked her to have lunch with me, and we started eating on the patio. I played along with her. I talked about boring stuff like fashion and the weather, and I asked her lots of questions.
Then I started talking about my father.
That’s something I never bring up.
I needed to shock her into reacting. Into getting her head out of that fixed place.
It worked too.
She got defensive, angry. I kept pressing questions about why he was abusive, why we left him, if life with Gautier was truly any better. She was so disgusted by what I was asking that she got up and went inside the house.
I followed her, right into the kitchen.
She always starts putting things away or cleaning the dishes when she’s nervous. The tic of a maid, I guess.
I cornered her so she couldn’t pass by me without trying to fight me physically, and I kept asking questions, and then I started turning the blame on her, because any time in the past I’ve said “I feel,” it’s been met with indifference. But by saying “you did this,” I enabled her to be reactive. She wasn’t able to shrug and smile and pretend everything was fine.
I told her she was abused by her husband and then abused by Gautier.
I told her she let me be abused by him too.
I told her she’s weak and that she’s let herself fall in love with him.
I told her that she’s dumb and thinks that he loves her too.
I told her she must hate me for letting Gautier do the things to me that he did.
And I told her she must hate herself for letting a man become more important to her than her daughter.
She must hate herself for letting herself be abused for far too long.
These were all horrible things to say, and I was shaking, crying, hating myself for saying them to her. She was a monster sometimes, and in that moment, I was the monster too.
Like mother, like daughter.
It almost worked too.
I almost had her.
I saw the cracks in her facade appear; I saw the words sinking in, or trying to. I saw a woman on the verge of the truth that she kept from herself, on the verge of a breakdown.
But then that truth never came. The cracks stopped flowing. The pain in her eyes disappeared.
A blank mask replaced it.
And I knew then that I never had a chance with her, and I never would.
That my mother would be gone forever if I didn’t do something.
If I didn’t put a bullet in Gautier’s head, setting the both of us free.
I swallow hard and knead the steering wheel, peering through the rain, trying to refocus my thoughts. I can’t think about my mother anymore. I just have to think about getting this done.
Finally done.
So we’re finally free.
The address I chose is an abandoned stone house on the outskirts of the nearest town. I’m sure it used to be quite something back in the day. In a way, it reminds me of the Dumont maison, had it succumbed to years of loneliness and neglect. In the right hands, the house could become something beautiful, but no one has loved it in such a long time.
The house reminds me of me. It reminds me of what I once was and what I was reduced to after his abuse. I could have really become something if he hadn’t removed my soul, stone by stone, replacing it with something dank and wet and dark.
I also chose the house because there is more than one way into it. I’m not a spy, but I consider myself smart enough. I knew that this would be an uphill battle, that all the cards would be stacked against me. I knew that Gautier might catch on, and either way, he wouldn’t come alone.
But I would be ready for him.
I park Pascal’s car down a lane a mile from the house, hiding it behind an old barn. Then I get out, leaving my bag behind on the seat, and grab the gun. I hold it low to my side and make my way through the darkened woods of maple and chestnut trees. The clouds have gathered here, spitting with light rain, and thunder rumbles in the distance. It’s far darker than it should be for nearly eight p.m.
Near the edge of the woods is another barn, actually a stable meant for three horses. It’s all decayed sawdust and spiders now. But this barn has a secret. Back in the 1940s, during the war, whoever lived here prepared for the worst and made a tunnel connecting the barn and the house. If the Nazis ever showed up at their door, they’d be able to sneak everyone out through the tunnel and either hide in the barn or make a run for it through the woods.
The trapdoor in the barn is easy to see. I imagine in the past it was under a bale of hay, but that hay has long since decomposed.
I lift it up and reach down for the first step with my free hand, where I’ve stored a small flashlight. I was only able to come here twice recently on my days off or if I was sent into town—it’s a long walk. But I actually discovered the house when I was a teenager, a place for me to hide and dream about justice.
The light is faint, but it’s enough. I slowly go down the six steps until my feet hit the dirt floor. I close the trapdoor above my head and shine the light forward. It’s dusty and full of cobwebs, and I hear the squish of gross things beneath my feet, but I don’t feel any fear.
I feel nothing at all.
That is, until I approach the end of the tunnel, where in the dim light I see the stairs leading up into the house. The door there is narrow, barely wide enough for one person, and opens up in a closet in the kitchen, what used to be the pantry.
I wait beneath it, trying to listen. I hear footsteps walking on the main floor, slow and methodical. Almost pacing. They probably searched the place already. Gautier knew I was still at the house and he would have beat me here, but he might think I have hired help or an accomplice.
Not Pascal, of course.
My heart sinks at what I had to do to him. It didn’t feel good to hit him, but I had no choice. I just hope I didn’t do any real damage, though his pretty-boy face can stand to look a smidgen ugly for a little bit.
Okay, here goes nothing.
I’m going to go up these stairs, then I’m going to slowly, quietly open the door in the floor.
I’ll wait for the right moment; I’ll take all night if I have to.
I’ll get up there and wait in the closet. There are wooden slats for me to see through.
I’ll stick the gun between the slats, and then I’ll wait for Gautier to walk by.
I’ll fire the gun.
He’s the first target, he’s the first shot. As long as he’s dead, I don’t care what happens next. With any luck, his friend will come running, and I’ll shoot him too.
Then I’ll leave.
I’ll get in Pascal’s car and drive back to the house and then try to figure out what’s next for me.
I’ve never really thought about what happens after that last step, after I do it.
Then again, I never anticipated falling in love with anyone, let alone Pascal. I didn’t think it was possible to have something, someone, other than revenge to live for.
I take in a deep breath, trying to calm my heart.
I’ll worry about it later.
But before I take the first step, I notice the air changing in the tunnel. It happens so fast, I can barely register it. It’s like it went from being vast and empty to being . . . not.
There’s someone behind me.
I move to turn around and see, but it’s too late.
A hand goes over my mouth.
“Gotcha,” Gautier says in my ear.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PASCAL
I wake up on the floor with my face on fire.
It takes me a moment to recall where I am. My cheek is pressed against a rough, unfamiliar rug, and when I open my eyes, I’m looking along a hardwood floor, straight to a chair in the corner, where a flannel shirt has fallen off the stack of clothing on it and crumpled to the ground, just like me.
Gabrielle.
The realization comes
at me quickly, and when I move, everything in my head screams in pain.
She had the gun.
I thought I was getting through to her and I approached her, but I should have remembered what she said all those times before. Harmless until threatened.
I was threatening in that moment. I was trying to stop her from doing everything she had waited and planned these last eight years to do.
I got a pistol-whip in the face and a bonk on the head in response.
Jesus.
But I’m not upset with her. There’s no time to be upset with her. There’s no time to think about the lies she told in order to do what she thought she had to do.
How can I be upset when I now know what happened?
That the monster who abused and raped her was my father.
I should have seen it coming. I know I should have. I should have let myself entertain the thought. Instead, I was lulled by my own delusions, those same delusions that never let me dwell on the fact that I knew he’d murdered Ludovic or that he wanted Seraphine killed or that if I ever stood up to him, if I ever traded in my malice for something good, he would blackmail me. I never let myself think about it because it was safer to operate that way. To think it, to believe it, would mean I would have to change. And I am too much of a lazy, selfish, scared son of a bitch to do that.
Or I was.
Now the change is happening.
I know what I must do.
I struggle to get to my feet and then stumble over to her bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. My cheekbone is bleeding from a gash, my skin a swollen riot of purple and red. I wet a washcloth, press it against my cheek, and try to think.
Gabrielle went to the address.
My father and Jones would already be there.
She has my gun.
She means to kill him.
I know she has every right to. She’s earned it. I won’t make any moral judgment here because I’m no better than she is.
But I know I have to stop her.
Even if my father and Jones are taken by surprise, I don’t want her pulling the trigger.
I don’t want that on her conscience.
I love her.
For all it’s worth, I love her, and I want to be with her, and I want us to have a chance.
If she kills him, she’ll get her revenge. But she’s not going to be able to live with herself after.
She’s grown up good. She’s got a pure soul. She’s got a big heart. She’s spent her years in pain, hurting and reeling from the turmoil and the trauma. She thinks that revenge will put a stop to her pain, but it will only make that pain worse, and I need to save her from that.
I need to save her.
Period.
I throw the dishcloth in the sink and run out of the guesthouse, heading into the kitchen. My mother is nowhere in sight, thank God, and I don’t think Jolie is back from her walk yet.
At the thought of Jolie, anger rolls through me.
Anger that’s just waking up again after being knocked unconscious.
How dare she not believe her daughter?
How dare she take my father’s side?
Then my thoughts pause, remembering what I know.
How dare my father get away with it?
The anger is now a beast, coming out of slumber, getting to its knees, making me shake inside as all sense of self is being corrupted by this blinding white-hot rage.
My father won’t get away with it.
I don’t know where there are guns in the house other than mine, which Gabrielle has, so I think I’m shit out of luck in that department, and with the clock ticking, there’s no time to ransack the house looking for one.
There’s only one weapon I know of.
I run into the study and grab the cane leaning against my father’s desk.
Back in the foyer, my keys are nowhere to be found. Of course Gabrielle would steal the car. For a split second, it almost makes me smile, the thought of her ripping out of the driveway in my car, feeling the speed beneath the gas pedal.
But that thought disappears in a flash, replaced by the anger and its new partner, fear.
Fear that if I don’t get there in time, I’m going to lose her forever. She’ll be taken again at my father’s twisted, bloody hands.
I grab the keys to my father’s Lamborghini, the one in the garage, the one he never drives, and run out there.
The garage door is already open, so I get right in the car.
I’ve driven it a few times before but never cared for it. Gaudy cars were more Blaise’s thing, not mine.
But this will get me there quicker than my mother’s SUV.
I enter the address coordinates into my GPS on my phone, and it brings me to a location not too far away. I roar out of the driveway, swinging the car onto the road with so much power, it nearly takes me into the ditch. I correct, and then I floor it, the car responding faster than my Audi ever could.
There’s no doubt that whatever place Gabrielle has chosen had been chosen on purpose and to her advantage, so I’m not surprised when I zoom in on satellite view and see that it’s a farmhouse, most likely abandoned.
I slow down, knowing I don’t want to get closer than this, and look for a place to ditch the car. I come across a side lane, basically a rutted path along a fallow field, and when I see my Audi parked behind a barn, I know I’ve come to the right spot.
I park beside it and get out, looking across the field and the woods to where the location must be beyond it. She must have gone through that way, hoping to surprise them from the other side of the house.
It’s still raining and getting darker as I start running across the field, cane in one hand, phone in the other. Thunder gives an ominous rumble, and somewhere in the distance there is a flash.
How fitting.
But the wry thought doesn’t stay for long. No thoughts do. This isn’t a time to think, this is a time to react and hope you’ve made the right choice.
All I’ve got is the cane. Gabrielle has a gun, and while I haven’t seen her shoot anything yet, she had zero hesitation in hitting me with it, so I don’t think she’ll have a problem. My father, well, who knows if he has anything at all. He has Jones. That’s all he needs.
Someone to grab Gabrielle and hold her down . . .
The thought turns my insides into something molten hot.
He raped her. He hurt her. She had to get an abortion because of him.
All alone, just a teenager, just a girl who was abused and unloved her whole life. She came with her mother to my house, looking for salvation, and instead she was pulled into hell by the devil.
I’m nearly so blind with anger that for a moment I’m afraid my heart might explode, that the rage is too much for it. I grip the cane tighter.
I have no doubt what my father has planned for Gabrielle.
It won’t be a quick and easy death.
He means to make her suffer in ways she has never suffered before.
The only hopeful thing about that is there might still be time to stop him, to save her from him and save her life.
Finally, I come to the edge of the woods and find myself gazing at an old stone farmhouse. There’s a small stable close to where I’m standing and then a field of weeds and vines between that and the house.
I hide behind a large maple tree and try to assess the situation. The stable makes the obvious choice. Gabrielle would have run in there. But then what? How would she get to the house without anyone seeing her coming?
What if she’s still in the stable?
At that thought, I head in through the open doors. It’s a small stable, covered in dust and smelling like rotting wood. I search each stall but find nothing until I notice a variation on the ground. In the area that was probably once a tack room, a crack is on the floor. I lean down to inspect it, brushing dirt aside until I realize it’s a wooden trapdoor, left askew.
There must be a tunnel between here and the house. That’s why she was so
confident that she’d be able to do this. She knew the house; she’d be able to take them by surprise, even if she came here after they did.
Before I go down there, I do another quick search of the stable, hoping to find something else that might be a weapon, but there’s nothing.
My father’s cane will have to do.
I put my phone away and quickly unscrew the brass horse head off the top of the cane, then pull it away from the body.
A long, thin sword is unsheathed. It’s remarkably sharp and shiny. My father used to threaten Blaise and me with the cane, though he luckily never revealed what was inside—I found that out later by myself. I always wondered why he needed a cane, since he seemed so able-bodied, but of course, everything my father has is duplicitous.
This time I pray it works in my favor.
I crouch down, carefully open the trapdoor, and make my way downstairs into the darkness. I don’t know who or what’s down there, so I don’t use the flashlight on my phone in case it gives me away. Instead I step off the stairs, my feet hitting the dirt ground, and slowly go forward.
One hand grips the sword, the other hand is out, feeling along the slick dirt walls of the tunnel, heading into total darkness. The faint light from the open door behind me doesn’t reach very far, and I have to hope I’m not going to run into something.
Even though I figured out roughly how much distance there was between the stable and the house, it still seems to take forever. Time is running out with each step I take.
Eventually the air in the tunnel feels like it’s changing, and I see a faint light up ahead. As I approach, I see the outline of stairs leading up.
Here goes nothing.
I walk up two stairs until my head pokes out of the floor, and I try to look around. I’m in a closet, the door open to the rest of the house.
I immediately duck my head, not knowing if someone is there watching me or not. I tighten my grip on the sword, remembering when Blaise called me a fucking musketeer for pulling this on him in a showdown. I think he’d be proud of this musketeer right now.
Listening hard, I hear nothing but a faint scuffle and murmured voices, somewhere else in the house. I cautiously raise my head again and look.
The house is dim, but there’s no one in sight.
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