Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(82)

And yet, even with that realization giving me some purpose and some strength, I know that no matter where I am, my heart won’t be with me.

I left it behind in Paris.

Back in that apartment.

With the person it belongs to.

The person who deserves it.

The person who needs it.

The heartache comes at me so fast, I barely have enough time to react.

One minute I’m holding the cup of coffee.

The next minute I’m buckling, the cup falling to the floor and smashing to pieces.

Of course, that reminds me of Olivier too.

That very first morning.

After he saved me.

He saved me in so many different ways.

And now it is my turn to save him.

I let out a garbled cry, the kind of violent sadness that overtakes your whole body, makes your heart and your guts and your lungs feel like they’re being ripped in half. I cry, and I sob, and I’m on my knees now, hands covered in spilled coffee, tears falling from my eyes and onto the sticky tiles.

This wasn’t what it was like with Tom.

That was just a scratch.

This is a full-on gash, created by the sharpest blade, slicing me from head to toe until I wonder if I was ever whole at some point.

I don’t know if I’ll be whole again.

I don’t know if you ever get your heart back into one whole piece after you’ve given it to someone else.

I stay on that floor for a long time, long enough that the cat is curious enough to come and investigate me. Kismet nuzzles my head, then starts to lap up the coffee before he saunters off, looking disgusted.

It brings me back to life a little, just focusing on the cat, and on the fact I’m lying on the kitchen floor, the same floor that’s been here since I was a young girl, when my mother and I moved from Wenatchee, abandoned by my father to fend for ourselves. In a way, it’s almost full circle, only I’m the one who left.

At first I don’t hear the knock at the door. My brain kind of processes it as background noise along with the loud whir of the fridge.

But then I hear it again. Loud and commanding.

I slowly ease up to a sitting position, listening.

One by one, the hairs on my arms stand up.

My nerves are razed.

Adrenaline is buzzing somewhere back in my primal brain.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, I think to myself. Relax. It could be the postman, a neighbor, a Jehovah’s Witness. Anyone.

I get up, wishing I wasn’t shaking. I slowly and carefully make my way out of the kitchen, careful not to step on the broken ceramic; then I think better of it and grab a knife from the drawer.

Holding it at my side, I sneak past the cat, who watches me with wide eyes.

If it really is no one, just a normal person, I’m going to look like a crazy woman, with my bedhead and tears and red eyes and coffee-stained pants, wielding a knife.

God, please let it be a normal person.

The knock happens again, the door almost shaking, and my heart ricochets into my throat, making it hard to breathe.

I peer through the peephole, but it’s always been so rusted and marred with scratches, all I can see is the tall silhouette of a man.

Oh my God.

I’m afraid what might happen if I don’t answer the door. I think maybe I should put down the knife and get out my phone and get 911 on the ready.

I’m about to do that when I hear a booming voice. “Sadie?”

I can’t hear it clearly, and even though it’s familiar, I don’t think Pascal or Gautier would announce themselves before they murdered me.

Still, I grip the knife harder and open the door.

I almost drop the knife.

A worn-out, disheveled, and desperate-looking Olivier is on the other side. His shirt is dirty, his hair is a mess, his eyes are haunted.

But when they look at me, really look at me like I’m looking at him, they come to life again.

“Mon lapin,” he whispers hoarsely. “It’s you.”

“Olivier,” I cry out, my breath returning to me, my body reeling from shock. “What are you doing here?” I drop the knife and instinctively throw my arms around him, and he holds me tight, so tight that I can’t breathe.

But I don’t need my breath now that I’m with him.

“I was so worried about you,” Olivier says into my neck, his voice breaking. “You have no idea, the things I thought.”

“I’m so sorry I had to leave like that,” I tell him. “I didn’t have a choice . . . Pascal . . .”

“I know,” he says, pulling away, his eyes full of fire as he cups my face. “Blaise told me everything.”

“Blaise? And you trusted him?”

“Let’s just say that Blaise is no more a fan of his father or his brother than we are. I don’t trust him at all, but I do trust what he told me. That Pascal threatened you . . . and I knew you would have done anything to protect your mother. And me.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” I explain, holding the door open for him to come in. “I couldn’t risk it.”

“I know,” he says, stepping inside and looking around. “Is it odd that I pictured it this way?”

“I don’t know what that says about me,” I say. “How on earth did you even find me here?”