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I take the scenic route. I enjoy driving, and it gives me time to think. However, today I don’t find joy in the view or having this time to myself. That strange listlessness from earlier is still there. Something is bothering me. The notion is faint but persistent, like a dull headache or queasy stomach.
Determined to make the best of the time Maxime has granted me, I put my thoughts aside and drive to the main beach in Marseille. The parking is empty. So is the jetty. I’m happy to have the space to myself.
I button my coat up and pull the hoodie over my head against the cold wind. Benoit mutters some cusswords and says something about freezing his ass off as he follows me to the pier. From there, he lets me go alone. I walk all the way to the end. A spray of saltwater blows against my face. A seagull calls out, swooping low and landing in the swell.
I take my phone from my bag and send Maxime a text to let him know where I am. Benoit always lets him know, but texting him my whereabouts is one of Maxime’s unbreakable rules. I don’t want him to get it into his head to come looking for me just because I disobeyed, or worse, take away my freedom and privileges.
Holding my phone in my hand, I wait for it to vibrate with his reply. Nothing. I check the screen. The tick mark shows my message has been delivered, but the dots don’t dance to indicate he’s busy typing. That’s strange. He always texts me back immediately. I wait a few more seconds, my unease growing, and finally pocket my phone.
It’s not like him to ignore my messages. No matter where or when, I always get a reply. Come to think of it, Maxime behaved very out of character this morning. Letting me stand here alone like this is definitely not like him. No matter how much work or how many meetings he has, he never lets business get in the way of spending time with me on the weekends. If he has to attend an event, he takes me along. If I need to get out, he puts everything on hold to accompany me. I’ve always credited his behavior to making sure I don’t escape, but maybe there’s more to it. Maybe he’s been considerate because he cares.
Then why is today is the exception? It doesn’t make sense. He seemed so reluctant for me to go. Did something happen? Is that why he looked so worried? Is that why he’s having such a long meeting on a Saturday? He’s having it at home?
Wait. That look on his face when I left—the concern and eagerness—wasn’t because he didn’t want me to go. He couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
Every instinct I own goes on high alert. That’s what’s been eating at me all the way here. Something is wrong, and it’s bad.
Turning, I rush back up the pier.
Benoit straightens at my hurried approach, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. Alarm flashes across his face. “Miss Hart?”
I run past him, pressing the remote to unlock my car.
“Zoe,” he calls after me. “Zoe, wait.” When I get behind the wheel, he throws down the baguette and runs for the Mercedes. “Fuck!”
I push down on the gas, breaking the speed limit. The Mercedes battles to keep up. My phone rings. Maxime? I yank it from my pocket and check the screen. Benoit. I cut the call and dump it on the seat, calling Maxime on voice command, but the phone goes straight to his voicemail.
Shit. What’s happening? Something feels awfully wrong. He sent me away for a reason. For my safety?
My phone rings again. Benoit. I reject the call and drive faster. I think about calling Francine and asking her to check on Maxime, but then I remember it’s her weekend off.
My nerves are shot by the time the house comes into view. My hands are shaking when I cut the engine and throw the car door open. The Mercedes races through the gates, Benoit coming to a hard stop behind me. He jumps from the car as I’m racing up the steps, catching up with me just as I grip the handle of the front door.
“Zoe.” He grabs my wrist. “Stop.”
I look at where he’s touching me. “Let go.” Maxime will cut his hand off for this.
“Fuck,” he groans, releasing me. “Zoe, listen. Don’t go in there.”
Pushing the door open, I walk inside. I stop in the entrance and listen, expecting gunshots or fighting. What greets me is much worse.
Soft, feminine laughter.
The sound hits me like an arrow in the heart. Nausea rushes through my body. My stomach burns with it.
Maxime’s voice reaches my ears. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but his tone is pleasant. The woman replies, then laughs again.
