Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(58)

Shit.

I breathe in deeply through my nose, trying to hide the fear that must be swimming in my eyes. “May I say, you seem very obsessed with me.”

“I am,” he says simply. “You’re a very beautiful woman, and I love beautiful things. I like to collect them and possess them and have them. And I don’t like to share. I’m just like my cousin. Just like Olivier.”

He knows. But of course he knows. He wasn’t stalking me for any other reason.

“It sounds like you might have some issues with your cousin,” I tell him, and finally rip my hand out of his grasp. “I don’t think your issues are with me.”

I turn and try to get out of there, to get swallowed up by the crowd of mourners, but Pascal calls out after me so softly it’s nearly carried away by the breeze. “That’s what you don’t understand. You are my issue now. The moment you decided to be with him was the biggest mistake you ever could have made.”

I stop. I freeze. I can’t move.

Is that some sort of threat?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but it goes in shakily and comes out in a tremor. I need to keep it together; I need to figure out what this all means.

A hand goes to my shoulder, and I jump, gasping, expecting to see Pascal.

But an older woman dressed in black is beside me and whispers something sympathetic in French and keeps walking.

I whip around to face Pascal.

But he’s no longer there.

In fact, I don’t see him at all.

Okay, it’s over, you’re safe, I tell myself. Remember what Olivier said, and go meet him.

I take another breath, gathering some courage, and head out to the big oak tree at the corner of the cemetery near the gates. Farther down the street, people have gathered on the road, getting into limos and town cars, and there are rows of cameras and film crews trying to pick up every moment of the funeral.

With shaking hands, I check my phone and see a text from Olivier.

Be right there, it says.

I find I can breathe a little easier, and it’s not long before everyone in the family is filing out, along with the more important guests, and then Olivier steals away from the crowd and comes over to me.

Instinctively, I duck behind the tree.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says to me, his voice rough and broken. “Who cares what they record?”

The words are on the tip of my tongue, almost spilling out into the air: I’m hiding from Pascal.

But I take one look at Olivier, and I know that Pascal is the least of his problems right now. In front of me is a broken man—eyes red, hair mussed, lips raw from chewing on them.

I put my arms around him and pull him into a hug. He’s reluctant at first, and I know it’s not because it’s me, but because he wants to keep being strong, especially here.

But then he relents and collapses into me, and I think he might break down entirely if not for the fact that a hired car pulls up beside us and gives a light honk.

Olivier pauses and pulls back, then ushers me into the back seat of the car. Once there, he leans back, undoing his tie, holding both hands to his face.

“You did good,” I tell him, knowing my words are feeble and mean nothing right now.

He shakes his head. “I should have said more.” He breathes in and out, his chest rising with ragged breaths, and then his hands fall away from his face. His lost and pained eyes seek me out. “I could have done more.”

“You did all you could. He would have been so proud. He is still so proud.”

He stares out the window. “I can’t even process this. I can’t. I don’t know what to do, you know?” Then he lapses into a string of mumbled French that I don’t understand, but that I certainly feel.

“I know,” I tell him, rubbing my hand on his leg, trying to comfort him. “It’s okay. Everything you’re feeling, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to feel any of this. I just want to . . . turn it off. Like a tap. Make it stop. I want to be numb. I don’t want to feel anything.”

“You don’t want that either,” I tell him. “Trust me. That’s the void. At first the void seems like the easiest place to be because you don’t have to feel anything. No sadness. No pain. No grief. Sometimes anger, but it’s not even real anger. It’s weak. And then you no longer feel happiness or joy or creativity. Nothing.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I need that.”

“You would mind. After a while there, you would mind. You feel nothing in the void, but because you stop feeling, you stop processing, and you stop . . . being. You know? We all need to feel, even the bad things. It’s what makes us human. If you stay in the void for too long, you’ll start questioning your humanity. If you’re even a person. If you’re even real. If you’re even here. And when you start with those questions . . . then you’re in too deep.”

He stares at me, biting his lip for a moment before saying. “You talk as if you’ve been to this place.”

“I have. And I got out. I just know it’s not a place you want to be. But believe me, I’m going to do whatever I can to help you. To be here for you. You won’t face any of this alone.”

He grimaces and lets out a sharp sigh. “But I will. You won’t be here. You’re leaving in a day.”