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Countries go to war because they have military.
Citizens are safe because we have the police.
And my family is safe because of me.
* * *
FOUR
Cosette
I stareout the barred window in the cell-like room. I’ve dimmed the lights so I can see out better and it’s harder to see me.
Not that he doesn’t have cameras trained on every possible exit.
If I move close enough to it and peer out, maybe squint my eyes a little, I don’t notice the bars.
Not that I care. He could put me alone in a prison in Siberia right now, and I’d welcome the solitude.
I don’t want to be anywhere near him.
I hate that guarded, fierce look in his eyes.
I hate that I’m in this predicament.
And he may not know this? But God, I hate Paris.
When I was younger, I didn’t really understand why I hated Paris so much.
When I was about six years old, I finally understood. I can still see my mother, sitting at our worn kitchen table, flipping through junk mail. A pamphlet of the Eiffel Tower bragged about discount flights abroad. She tore it into pieces and tossed it in the trash bin.
I hate Paris becauseshedid.
“Why do you hate it so much?” I asked her.
She sucked on her cigarette, opening her mouth and releasing a ring of smoke before answering me. I imagined her words were embedded in the smoke.
“You’re old enough to know. Your father came from Paris.”
My father? I don’t know what I’d assumed up until then, but as a child with fanciful thoughts and a vivid imagination, I probably imagined she’d plucked me from a garden or something.
“My father?” I asked.
“Your father,” she said, her voice laced with contempt. “This is the first and last time we’ll ever talk of him.”
And that was that.
For her, anyway. For me, it was only the beginning.
The motion-activated lights blink on outside the window. Avril Gerard, her head held high, surrounded by lithe, lanky bodyguards on either side, walks down the long pathway that leads to her parked car.
My heart aches.
I’ve only met Avril once, when she came to Corsica to visit her sons. They never take her to Le Luxe and she likes to pretend it doesn’t exist, but she sometimes comes on holiday. Even though I worked for Thayer, I was friends with his sister-in-law Nicolette first and I’ve known Nicolette’s husband Fabien for years.
Avril was at once kind and welcoming. Once, Avril, Nicolette, and I went for a visit to one of Corsica’s many natural springs. She asked about college, our plans, and listened with rapt attention to everything we said. She brought a wicker basket of little sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, ripe fruit, and chilled wine. It was a simple meal, but with her welcoming presence and ready smile, it felt like a feast meant for royalty.
I wonder what it’s like for her being alone. If I survive this—and I have no reason to believe I will—I wonder if I’ll be as graceful being alone as she is. Is it lonely? Or does she like having full autonomy over her life?
