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Cress grimaces and wraps her arms around herself.
“Cold?” Max asks, peeling off his jacket.
She shakes her head. “I just need to go in. Change.”
“Right. Thanks again, Poulliot. See you tomorrow.”
“Wait—” Allan has his hand up.
“Come to our room,” Micki says. “We can confab there.”
“Anything else can hold until morning. Cress needs sleep.” Max slips his jacket over Cress’ shoulders and walks her toward the doorway, but she turns back.
“No, Max.” Cress’ voice is firm. “We’ll go to Micki and JL’s room and talk about everything. Is an hour from now okay?”
“Of course.” Allan can be conciliatory now that he’s getting what he wants.
None of us can take our eyes off them, Cress leaning heavily against Max, until they disappear into the depths of the lobby.
“Blast him. I want a statement now.”
Poulliot lifts one shoulder nonchalantly. “We can wait. Only cleanup to do. I will return in the morning. You may tell me everything then.”
“Fine.” Allan turns on one heel and stumps away into the building. Poulliot lights a cigarette, gives a little wave. “Á bientôt.”
“Á demain,” I say and lead Micki back to the wicker couch.
Trying not to show the pain and urgency I feel, I pick up her hands and start kissing the knuckles. Then I gaze into eyes still shimmering with the remnants of tears. “Ma chouette, come with me to Vancouver.”
“No, I—”
One of my hands cups her head, the other covers her mouth until I lean forward and stop the words with a kiss.
“Please come with me. Just text your office and tell them something has come up. They’ll see the story of the attack on the news.”
“I need to be there.” Her wail is muffled by my chest as I hold her close.
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
Face pale and drawn, she looks like that would be the end of the world.
“Isn’t your managing partner making it easy for you to stay?”
“Yeah, if I’m there, it will be more difficult for him. Being there is half the battle.”
“And what if it makes no difference? Maybe this is the path you need to follow.” My insistence makes her stiffen in my arms.
“Who are you to tell me what I should do with my life?” She gets up and starts to back away, face blazing.
My hands spread in apology. “Someone who cares about you. I’m not making the choice for you, just pointing out you aren’t happy where you are and maybe considering alternatives isn’t such a bad idea.”
Her phone buzzes. Fumbling it out of her bag, her eyes widen as she looks at the text. “It’s from Rebecca.”
“Who’s that ?”
With a catch in her voice, she says, “My, my mentor.”
She reads the message a second time, just as another comes in. A determined look replaces the disbelief, and she types on the screen. An extensive set of back-and-forth texts follows. When she finishes, she drops the phone in her lap, breath whooshing out. Energetically, she jumps out of the chair.
