The French Girl(87)
Do I? I look inside myself, for the cold, hard fear I remember, for the fury I want to be there, for the Kate I wanted to be, but I’m not sure where any of those are. A longing for Severine washes over me, to once again see my beautiful, inscrutable ghost. But she isn’t here. Caro took her from me; twice, as it turns out, and on that realization I finally find a bright, shining edge of steel. Tom looks at my face. “If Caro was prepared to do this,” he says quietly, almost in a growl, “is there something else she’s done?” Bless him for his quick understanding: he’s already joined the dots. I wonder if he’d half made the links already. But he’s looking at me gravely, a stillness in his face as he awaits confirmation. I nod silently, and he breathes out slowly, the stillness eroded into bleak disappointment edged with anger.
“I want to take this to the police,” I say, as emphatically as I’m currently capable of sounding.
“Okay,” sighs Dr. Page. “We’ll get everything in order from the medical side.” She looks at Tom and me, and her eyes soften. “For the record, your man here never believed you tried to kill yourself,” she says, a half smile on her face. “He told anyone who would listen that they were wrong. Same for your friend Lara.” I look at Tom again, who has at some point taken my hand once more, though it doesn’t quite feel like mine yet; I look at those eyes that are all his, above that wonderful nose, and I’m suddenly afraid I may burst into tears. “Now may I actually tell you about your medical condition?” asks the doctor wryly.
I smile and nod, and she launches into an explanation that involves some quite terrifyingly dramatic medical terms that I choose to mostly ignore because against all odds, the upshot seems to be that I’m actually here and I’m fine, or I’m going to be, and Tom is holding my hand, a hand that becomes a little more mine with every stroke of his thumb. Time is a ribbon, and there is more of that ribbon ahead for me. Despite the drugs Dr. Page has just explained I’m being pumped with, it’s dawning on me slowly what almost happened to me, what was almost taken from me, and suddenly the tears that threatened begin to spill down my cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” says Dr. Page kindly. “This is not an unusual reaction to the drugs.”
“I think,” says Tom grimly, “it’s more of a reaction to attempted murder,” but his hand is gentle as he places it against my face again. This time I turn into it, and my head doesn’t thump too hard at the movement.
“Alors, attempted murder?” a familiar voice drawls from the doorway. “I think that is something I should hear about, non?” Modan. He’s not wearing a suit, but nonetheless he is still impeccably dressed, in casual jeans, a shirt and a pullover—the same sort of outfit that millions of men choose every day, but somehow his screams French sophistication. Or perhaps that comes from the way he positions his lanky frame against the doorway and raises one eyebrow.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” I say wearily. I am in fact excessively exhausted all of a sudden. Surely he won’t arrest me in my hospital bed? “You really find your way everywhere, don’t you?”
“True, but today I thought I was just the bag carrier,” Modan replies, raising one hand with a self-deprecating smile. I recognize Lara’s tan handbag dangling from it; hostilities must have ceased. “Lara is just in the bathroom. Though maybe I need to change roles, non?”
“Maybe, but not yet,” says Dr. Page firmly. “This patient needs some more sleep. As soon as your friend Lara has said hello it’s time for a sedative.”
“You are very lucky to be here,” says Modan, advancing diffidently into the room. His voice is serious, and for once the mouth bracketed between those deep lines is sober. “In my career I have seen . . . alors, more than enough overdoses. It is . . . it is an unbelievable pleasure to see you with us again.”
His simple, genuine words catch at my throat. All I can do is nod. When I find my voice again I ask, “How . . . how am I here? How did I get help?”
“You called me,” says Tom simply. “On your iPhone. Voice activated, probably; I never thought I would have cause to say this, but thank the Lord for Siri. I thought you were calling about the flowers . . .” Flowers. A pocketful of dark secrets. Something tugs in my brain, then slides away. “You didn’t really say anything except something that sounded maybe like . . . help.” He’s silent for a moment. There’s a bleakness in his expression that frightens me to see. “It didn’t sound much like you at all.” There’s something odd in his voice, a touch of puzzlement as he remembers. “I almost could have sworn it was . . .”
“Who?” I ask, though I know the answer; I believe I know who my savior was. But the moment has passed; Tom shakes his head.
“Anyway, I called Lara since I knew she had a key, and she called Modan.” He nods appreciatively in the direction of the Frenchman; there seems to have been some manly bonding between the two that I have missed. “They both went straight over there and found you and called the ambulance. I got there about ten minutes after them, and the ambulance was only a few minutes after me—”
“Wait,” I say suddenly. My jumbled brain has reminded me that I have something important to say. “Modan, Caro killed Severine. She was in the Jag, taking cocaine; she went to the bus depot to pretend to be Severine; with a scarf on her hair you wouldn’t even know she’s blond . . .” Modan is staring at me sharply, halfway through pulling a chair across to the bedside. “You have to believe me.”