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“Please leave,” François said. “You’re not wanted here.”
“On the table,” Michele said.
I turned off the mute. We watched as Imam Al-Moustapha, FEZ Couriers owner Firmus Massi, and Ali Farad were released from La Santé prison. They each made a brief statement condemning the intent of AB-16, swearing their allegiance to France, and reiterating their belief in nonviolence.
The screen cut away from them, and the anchorwoman quoted other condemnations that were rolling in from around the world against Émile Sauvage and the rest of the AB-16 conspirators. Parisians of all persuasions were said to be outraged at their methods and goals.
After a few man-on-the-street interviews, the anchor said, “In other news: One man is trying to show that Paris is not burning by simply going on and celebrating in memory of one of the murder victims.”
The feed cut to Laurent Alexandre. Wearing a black mourning suit, Millie Fleurs’s personal assistant stood in the middle of her haute couture showroom. It was packed with white folding chairs. There was a large picture of the designer on an easel surrounded by floral bouquets.
“I think what AB-16 wanted was obscene and unthinkable,” said Alexandre. “All of Paris, all of France, should stand up against this kind of thinking by showing them that our culture goes on. This afternoon, many of the best designers in the world will unveil dresses made in Millie’s honor and in defiance of AB-16.”
“Mor
gan?”
Sharen Hoskins stood in the doorway. She tapped on her watch. I nodded, and turned to Michele. As I did, I saw a model appear behind Alexandre. She wore a stunning black cocktail dress. Millie Fleurs’s assistant gestured to it and said, “This is my contribution.”
“Beautiful dress,” Michele whispered, almost asleep.
“I have to go.”
She roused, looked at me. “Come back?”
“God no,” said her agent.
I nodded. “To testify, at least.”
“Call me?”
“Definitely. And you should come to L.A.”
“Not happening,” François said.
“I’d like that,” Michele said, and paused. “You know you’ve never kissed me. You’ve never even tried.”
“I thought you were out of my league.”
“She is,” her agent said.
“You’re not,” Michele said.
“My bad, then. It will never happen again.”
Then I leaned over and kissed her tenderly.
Chapter 111
11:18 a.m.
ON THE RIDE out to de Gaulle, I relived that kiss over and over, wondering when I’d actually get to see Michele Herbert again. We could Skype and see each other, of course, but I meant to actually hold her, and kiss her more than once, and learn her story by heart.
My eyelids drifted shut in the backseat of the sedan that Hoskins was driving. Juge Fromme sat beside her, determined to see me aboard my flight and gone.
I drifted into a buzzing sleep, right on the edge of consciousness.
Images from the past few hours slipped by me: Sauvage ranting as the soldiers dragged him away, the look on Hoskins’s and Juge Fromme’s faces when I showed them the massacre site, Michele’s wan smile when I left her, and then Millie Fleurs’s assistant gesturing to the black cocktail dress.
