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“I know who—” He gulps, swallowing air. “I know who started the fire.”
I go still. Crackling sounds in my ear, the sound of flames melting paint and plaster. I smell it, the smoke. It’s thick in my lungs. It burns my eyes. My rage is white-hot. It smolders quietly like coals, a spark waiting to catch and leap.
My voice belongs to someone else. I know, but I still ask, “What fire?”
“The fire.” He twists his neck to look at me. “The fire in the warehouse.”
Ignoring the dirtiness of his hair, I grip the strands and yank his face to the wall. “Don’t fucking look at me.” I’m too frightened he’ll see the anguish I suffered in those moments. That’s private.
“I’m sorry!”
Heat devours my skin. “Who?”
“Alexis.”
A rush of ice douses the burn. “What did you say?”
“I have it on video. I filmed it.”
Blood gushes in my ears, drowning the static crackling. “You were there?”
“I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. Alexis told me to empty the can of petrol. He lit the match.”
All the evidence, every scrap of DNA, burned away. I walked through that fire. I survived it. I paid the price of living through the ordeal. I searched for the guilty person. I let it fester like the pus that leaked from my charred flesh. Somewhere between fighting for my life and fighting the pain, I lay my hunger for vengeance down. Living took every ounce of energy I had left. I told myself it was enough, that I was lucky to be alive.
Leclerc just struck that match he claims he never touched, and I’m a fire raging out of control.
I think fast. Leclerc’s room may be booby-trapped. He may have cameras in place. If I were in his shoes, I certainly would’ve taken precautions. Plus, I don’t know the people in the shithole where he stays. I can’t afford witnesses.
“You’re going to bring it to me,” I say, jerking back his head. “Hôtel du Cadran. Room 118.” I know the owner. I can get cleanup in and out unnoticed. “It’s not you I want,” I lie. “It’s Alexis.”
“It’s going to cost you,” he says in a pathetic attempt of bravery.
I let him go, giving him the illusion. “Name your price.”
He scurries to his feet. “Twenty thousand.”
“You’ve gotten enough out of Alexis already.”
He puts distance between us. “Ten.”
I grin. “Deal.” I don’t even have one thousand in my name, but he doesn’t need to know I have no intention of paying him.
“What then?”
Then I kill Alexis. “Then nothing.”
He wipes his nose with his hand. “What about your brother?”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you think?”
His beady eyes hop around in their sockets as he considers the outcome of the situation. He’s safer with Alexis dead. Plus, another ten grand before he skips the country can’t hurt. He knows he’s milked this cow dry. He nods.
“One hour,” I say. “If you don’t show, I’ll burn you alive.”
Fear widens his eyes. His fat chin quivers.
I hold out a hand. “Give me your phone.”
He delves a hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
I snatch it from his palm. “If I don’t find you, Alexis will, so you better show up.”
Pocketing his phone, I turn and walk in the direction of the Moulin Rouge.
“What about the money?” he calls after me. “I want cash.”
I don’t look back.
He’ll show up.
The consequences if he doesn’t are much too terrifying for him not to.
Chapter 35
Zoe
I work extra late. When I come home, Maxime is gone. He left a plate of grilled calamari and Camargue rice in the oven for me. A note with the name and room number of his hotel in Paris lies on the counter in case I need him.
After kicking off my shoes, I pour a glass of wine. I can’t shake my guilt for how Maxime left. I’ve been a bitch, but doesn’t he deserve it?
I owe him nothing.
He’s trying, a voice says in my mind.
For how long? How long before he shows his true colors again?
Shaking the thought, I call Lina. She sounds so happy. Damian is staying with her and Josie in the room while their nanny is taking care of Josh at home. I’m glad Damian is an attentive husband and daddy. The bonding with the new baby is important. I’ve read up about it. We have a quick chat before a nurse interrupts to check on Lina. I ask for more photos of Josie and promise to call back on Sunday. If it was up to me, I’d call every day, but I have to give them some space to adapt to the change in their lives.
I throw the phone on the table and look around the empty space. It’s quiet. I’ve grown used to having Maxime here when I come home. When we’re not having sex, he keeps his distance, but his presence has become a quiet given. He’d either be working on his laptop or tidying the kitchen after cooking. If he’s not reading, he’s always fiddling around, replacing light bulbs or oiling door hinges. The apartment feels lonely without him.
