Discretion

by Halle, Karina

“Know what?” Seraphine asks.

  “Why don’t you tell her?” Blaise asks. “Why don’t you tell your sister what you did. And what it’s cost everyone.” He pauses, a smug look coming across his face. “You like to pretend that you’re so good and noble and loyal, but instead, you’re just a fraud. No better than the rest of us. Just a dirty, lying son of a bitch who doesn’t even have the guts to admit he’s—”

  I don’t even think.

  My arm swings back, and my fist comes forward, and I punch Blaise right in the nose.

  His head goes flying and smacks against the doorframe of the car with a metallic thunk. Blood trickles from his nose as he covers it with his hand, yelping in pain.

  “Olivier!” Seraphine yells at me.

  But I don’t care. He’s had it coming for a very long time, and it takes all I have to not punch him again. The rage is burning through me at a terrifying rate.

  “You’re an asshole,” he growls at me.

  “And you’ve been an accessory to fucking blackmail.” I sneer at him. “Do you know how you’ve ruined my life? Do you know the pain you helped cause?”

  “Olivier, please, what are you talking about? Blaise, what blackmail?”

  He shrugs. “Olivier slept with Marine,” he says tiredly. Seraphine gasps, and I can’t believe it’s finally coming out. “Ten years ago. My father found out and made a bargain with Olivier. Actually, several bargains,” he says and then glances up at me, wincing through the pain. “One was that you would feel the same as you had made Pascal feel . . . Tell me, if you think that driver was after you, where do you think he might go next?”

  I blink at him, breathing hard. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sadie,” Seraphine gasps. I meet her eyes. “Your girlfriend. Where is she right now?”

  Oh fucking no.

  I climb into the back seat and start looking frantically for my phone.

  “No, no, no,” I repeat under my breath, refusing to think about it, needing her to be okay. I finally find it under the seat; the screen is cracked, but I’m able to dial her number.

  “I’m not saying it’s what’s happening,” Blaise says. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore. But if what you think is correct . . . then there are other ways of coming after you if the job didn’t get finished the first time.”

  I barely hear him. I have the phone to my ear, and it’s ringing, ringing, ringing.

  No answer.

  No answer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SADIE

  “Un billet, s’il vous plaît,” I say to the woman behind the booth. Either she doesn’t know English or my French is finally good enough to understand, because she answers me in French—rather cheerfully for someone who works at the catacombs.

  When Olivier went out to talk to Seraphine, I knew it would do me no good to spend another afternoon moping inside of his apartment. But with rain in the forecast, it was either the museums, which would be absolutely packed, or a visit underground to the Catacombs of Paris.

  I’d never been before—Tom was too disturbed by the idea of passageways filled with bones—and I wasn’t about to wait for Olivier to play tourist with me.

  It was kind of a pain to get the various Métros here, and I got off at several wrong stops, but now that I’m here, I’m glad I came—even though I’m currently descending a very narrow, very twisty staircase, deeper and deeper underneath the streets of Paris. I pull up my phone to check the reception, and, naturally, there is none.

  Once I reach the main level, the creepy factor ratchets up several notches. It really is just a lair of bones. Actual human bones. It’s a winding labyrinth with stacks and stacks of skulls, all dimly lit, the bones dusty, the air damp. It’s cold, too, the kind that clings to you.

  But there’s something rather beautiful about the way the bones are displayed, artfully and with reverence, an artistic way of paying respects if not just a space saver when it comes to burials. After all, there are six million people buried in these tunnels, which absolutely blows my mind. The fact that the public is allowed to see only a tiny fraction of it is pretty disturbing.

  I feel like I’ve been walking for a while now, passing tourists taking photos and selfies with skulls and femurs. It’s confusing, the way the tunnels go, and the damp and darkness really seem to put you in a weird headspace.

  It doesn’t help that this is a pretty morbid thing that I’m doing, especially after seeing Ludovic die, then the funeral, and hearing Seraphine’s theory, not to mention the truth of what happened to Olivier.

  A cold breeze washes over my bare arms, and I shiver, wishing I had paid more attention to the online reviews and brought a sweater. It’s like even with the rain happening far aboveground, it’s gotten even colder down here.

  There are not a lot of tourists, either, not as many as I’d thought there’d be. There are some passages of the tunnels where I don’t see anyone at all. I just hear hushed voices. And when I turn the corner, there’s no one there. Maybe the rain has them all cooped up in the Louvre and the Orsay museums. Maybe they were smart and figured the catacombs were actually the worst place to be on a gloomy summer day.

  There are various darkened passageways that lead away from the main tunnel at any given time. They all have NE PAS ENTRER and STOP signs, warning people not to enter. Some have doors that are locked; others are just long, dark cracks that disappear into the limestone.

  I shiver when I hear the wet smack of footfalls behind me.

  I whirl around, but see only a round column of bones rising from the middle of the slimy floors. No one at all.

  It must be the water dripping from the ceiling, I tell myself.

  I take a deep breath and keep walking, relieved to turn the corner and see an older couple reading one of the plaques on the walls.

  Still, again I hear the sound of footsteps and feel the wash of a cold breeze, goose bumps prickling my arms. I swear I see a shadow move backward, deeper into the other shadows.

  “Hello,” I call out, but the only response I get is a curious “Hello?” from the couple in front of me.

  I give them an awkward wave and then walk past them, wanting now to get the hell out of here.

  But there’s only one way out of the tunnels, at least for the public, and the exit never seems to come. I keep walking, sometimes through rooms with a few people in them, sometimes through spaces with no one else.

  And all this time I have the disturbing feeling that I’m being followed.

  And, yeah, of course I’m being followed. There are always tourists coming up behind me, though at my pace I’m passing everyone.

  No, this feeling is something else.

  It’s shadows that won’t stop moving.

  It’s the gleam of eyes before they disappear into the dark.

  It’s knowing deep in my core that I am being watched.

  Hunted.

  When I get that feeling for the millionth time, I whirl around, prepared to face my attacker.

  I don’t see anyone but a lone kid at the very end, touching a skull.

  Then I turn around and see it.

  This time in front of me, not behind me at all.

  A man passing across the tunnel and disappearing into the dark, going to and coming from a place he shouldn’t.

  I walk forward and peer around the corner.

  There are two passageways, both with DO NOT ENTER signs. One is completely dark. One has a dim light hanging from somewhere farther inside, like it’s a large cavern.

  I know I should keep going.

  I know I should get out of this place.

  But now I’m curious, more curious than afraid.

  I carefully walk through the narrow passage, ignoring the sign, my fingers brushing along the damp limestone walls.

  And then I see it.

  A small room carved into the stone.

  A stack of busted crates in one corner.

  Piles of broken bones.

  A singl
e swinging bulb giving off a dull sepia light.

  And Pascal, standing right below it.

  Waiting for me.

  I should have expected to see him, I should have known it was him following me. This place looks like the sort he’d emerge from, somewhere between the real world and hell.

  Yet, I’m surprised.

  Surprised enough to freeze in place, my breath catching in my throat.

  “You’re a hard girl to get ahold of,” Pascal says in a low voice. He steps forward, the light of the bulb hitting his eyes, making them gleam with intensity.

  “And you don’t seem to take a hint very well,” I tell him, raising my chin and fixing him with my most confident glare, even though inside I want to run, maybe throw up somewhere.

  I turn around and start out the way I came, because I may have been stupid enough to come in here, but I’m not stupid enough to stay.

  “And you don’t seem to take threats very well,” he says sharply. There’s such an edge to his voice that I have no choice but to stop. “You’re a smart girl, Sadie. You know what’s going to happen to you, to Olivier, if you don’t start making the right choices. You can walk out of here and pretend you never saw me, but I’ll make sure to follow you wherever you go. Wherever your loved ones go. Wherever your loved ones are.” He pauses. “I’ve heard Seattle is lovely this time of year.”

  My heart booms loudly in my ears, and I slowly turn to face him.

  He can’t be serious.

  Did he just threaten my mother?

  But he is serious. He’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him. That mask he sometimes wears is gone, and there is nothing but ice-cold ambition, the kind of look that I’m sure most serial killers have while they’re planning their next kill.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask quietly.

  “I want to show you something,” he says, smoothly taking his phone out of his pocket and walking toward me.

  I back up until I am pressed against the cold wall and wonder if I scream whether my voice would echo out into the tunnels or be swallowed up by the bones.

  “Don’t panic,” he says to me, coming so close that he’s almost pressed up against me, leaving just a few inches that feel like no space at all. I can hardly breathe. His face comes in closer, his lips going into that lopsided smirk, one that enjoys what he’s doing far too much. “I’m not going to hurt you. We can discuss things like adults. We can decide what we’re going to do next.”

  I don’t say anything, just stare at him, and I know my eyes are showing every ounce of fear rolling through me.

  “You have such beautiful eyes,” he says. “Like an animal, caught, cornered. Once trusting, now afraid.”

  I lick my lips, my mouth going so dry it’s like a bag of sand was poured in it.

  “You don’t have to fear me if you listen,” he murmurs, his gaze now raking over my mouth. “You have nothing to fear at all if you play this the right way.”

  “And what way is that?” I whisper.

  He raises his brow. “You’re curious. Curiosity killed the cat, isn’t that what they say where you’re from? But you’re smarter than that. That’s why you’re going to listen. That’s why you’re going to leave.”

  “I’ll gladly leave.” I make a move to go, but he flattens himself against me, positioning himself so I’m stuck between him and the wall. I suck in my breath, trying to muster enough energy to scream, when he puts his hand over my mouth.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” he whispers harshly. “What did I just say? You stay quiet and you listen, and everything will work out. If you scream, if you run, then it will be me on that next plane back to Seattle, not you. Do you understand me? I know my English can be bad sometimes, but I’m trying to convey something very important here. Do you comprehend any of this?”

  I don’t.

  All I know is the fear.

  The fear that something terrible is about to happen to me.

  But at the same time, how could it?

  I could fight, I could escape, I could yell, and people would come running in a second. We’re in a room with one way out, and there’s a world of tourists just around the corner.

  I could do all of those things and escape.

  It would only make things worse.

  I try to will myself to relax, to play along, but with his hand pressed against my mouth, his hard, strong body pinning me in place, it’s impossible.

  “Good girl,” he says. “You’re learning. You’re listening. This is good. Hey, let me show you something.” He takes his hand away from my mouth, and I gulp for air. He brings his phone right up to my eyes and presses “Play.” “Do you recognize this?”

  It’s a video. The footage is grainy at first; then it focuses in.

  It’s of a hotel.

  A hotel room at the Rouge Royale.

  It’s of a window. I’m naked and pressed up against the glass. Olivier is screwing me against it. The camera zooms in closer and closer, and though I’m facing away for most of it, occasionally my head turns to the side, either in ecstasy or to look down at the world below, and you can clearly see that it’s me.

  My cheeks immediately go red, and I close my eyes from the shame.

  I knew that it was a mistake to be so brazen. To fuck where anyone could see us. It was part of the thrill. I was so taken with the meeting in the hotel, with everything.

  And Pascal saw the whole thing.

  He filmed the whole thing from the building across the street, maybe that dark room with the half-closed shutters.

  He puts his phone away. “At first I thought you were an incredible performer,” Pascal murmurs into my ear, his breath hot. “I thought that there was no way my cousin could be that good. But I guess it’s the truth. Though you know, if I had my way with you, Olivier would barely be a memory.”

  “Dream on,” I manage to say, glaring at him.

  “I don’t have to dream,” he says with a smile. “I have this. Do you know how many times I’ve come watching this? How many times I’ve imagined it was me with my cock inside you, making you writhe against the glass? I’m getting turned on just talking about it again, being able to feel you like this, to smell you when you’re hot and desperate. Do I make you desperate right now?”

  I look away from the lewd excitement in his eyes, refusing to answer him, knowing no matter what I say, he’ll find some fucking way to twist it around to suit him.

  “Bashful suddenly? I see. Well, I suppose it’s always a shock to see yourself in such an intimate moment. It will be a bigger shock when the world sees it.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I snap at him.

  He grins. He looks like a fucking maniac. “I have your attention. Very good. Well, see, this is just one of the things that will happen if you stay with Olivier. I’ll share this with the press. It will be everywhere. Sure, it’s nothing more than a scandal, and I don’t think it will hurt Olivier in any way. But it’s got to be embarrassing for you. To have everyone back at home see you like this. Your mother . . .”

  “Don’t you fucking mention her.”

  He shrugs. “I have to. It’s part of the plan.”

  “Your fucking plan to break us up, to keep Olivier from any happiness, isn’t that it? That’s what you want?”

  He tilts his head, frowning as he studies me. “You make it sound like I hate my cousin.”

  “You do. And he fucking hates you.”

  “Oh, I am very aware of that.”

  “That’s why he fucked your wife,” I spit out, expecting Pascal to look shocked or insulted or something.

  But that crooked, twitching smile returns, and his eyes are practically dancing with joy. “That’s not why he fucked my wife,” Pascal says. “He fucked my wife because it bothered him how little his own family thought of him. How little I cared for him. He fucked my wife because she was beautiful, and she said she wanted him, and he fell for it.”

  I frown. “Fell for it?”

  �
�Why, yes. Fell for it. Marine was ambitious but stupid, a terrible combination. A lot like my mother, actually. That’s probably why I first asked her to marry me—you know how messed up all these relationships can be. Anyway, when you’re stupid but ambitious, you’ll do anything and never think of the consequences. Marine never wanted to be with me—she just wanted my money. It happens to all of us. I’m sure with my mother it was the same. It was certainly the same for Seraphine’s ex-husband. You can never really be sure of someone’s intentions. When you’re a Dumont, everyone wants a piece of you, even if it means cutting themselves in the process.”

  He runs a finger down the side of my cheek, slowly pressing harder and harder. “Marine was an easy target, and she was disposable. I told her the plan. She would seduce Olivier, have an affair with him, lead him on, and let him believe that she loved him. Then we’d wait for them to be discovered.”

  Oh. My. God.

  “After that, the deal was done. Olivier lost everything. My father and I gained everything—we would just have to bide our time. It came a lot sooner than I thought, to be honest with you.”

  “Marine . . . you made your wife seduce Olivier? You set him up!”

  “We set him up. It was my father’s idea, naturally. He always has the good ideas. I was rather young at the time, I hadn’t evolved into it yet. Don’t worry about Marine, though, she got what was coming to her. As soon as it was over, I divorced her, and she didn’t get a single penny from me. You see, she was cheating on me with my cousin, and there was that infidelity clause in our prenup.”

  Just when I didn’t think this guy could get any more evil . . .

  “Oh, I disgust you,” he says to me, amused. “I’m all right with that. It’s better to get a reaction than no reaction. It’s like art, you see.”

  “How dare you compare murder to art.”

  “Murder?” Pascal says. “You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “I know you did it. Everyone knows. You murdered Ludovic to take over the company.”

  Pascal purses his lips for a moment, and I can tell this has caught him off guard, the fact that I know the truth. “He had a heart attack.”

  “You killed him.”