“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.”
Modan nods seriously. “Then you will have to tell me everything.”
“But not right now,” interjects Dr. Page sharply. “As I said—”
“You’re awake!” Lara has spilled into the room, and in an instant the mood has lifted, despite the tears that bracket her laughter, because she is once again the sunshine girl and she takes it with her wherever she goes. Lara is Lara, and Tom is Tom, and I’ve yet to learn what Modan is, but time is a ribbon, and there is more of that ribbon for me, so perhaps I will find out.
* * *
—
My head is not broken, but still there are cracks. Cracks in my memory, cracks in my understanding, cracks in my experience of time; fractures that allow things to bleed in, and others to slip out. At times a sly beast of exhaustion pads unnoticed through the openings to leap lightly onto my shoulders; then it digs in its claws and drags me to the floor. My next few days consist of infrequent periods of wakening that sink abruptly and dramatically into an oblivion that is so deep and complete that I’m both scared by it and powerless to resist.
Somewhere in those days the police talk to me. I’m not clear on how many times. Modan appears to be running point, despite overtly deferring to a local granite-hewn officer (do they mine all British policemen from the same quarry?) whose doubtful expression is, I have to hope, habitual rather than specific to this case. By this case, I mean Caro’s poisoning of me—nobody is talking to me about Caro’s murder of Severine, which I don’t understand and can never quite seem to get a straight answer on. Modan and his British colleague come to talk with me, they go away, they come again; or perhaps it is me that leaves and returns.
Lara comes, too, bringing magazines I can’t read because the words crawl around the page, but she also brings chocolate and grapes and flowers and herself. I hear the full story of my rescue; she paints a picture that has Modan glittering in the forefront, and I can’t help thinking that my near-death is almost entirely responsible for the resurrection of their romance. “Honestly,” she says in a half-awed tone, “he was brilliant. I was totally beside myself, but he knew exactly what to do. Really, you should have been there.”
“Well,” I say drolly, “I was, actually.”
Her face sobers instantly. “God, I know. I know. You know what I meant.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach for her hand remorsefully, and we share a smile that’s a little wobbly on her side. “And then? Modan?”
She blushes. “Well, once we knew you were out of immediate danger, he took me home. It must have been about six in the morning. He grabbed croissants from that bakery on the corner by my flat; you know the one? It opens really early . . . Anyway, we had croissants and then he tucked me up in bed and he was going to leave, but I didn’t want to be alone so he stayed and he didn’t try anything, he was just totally taking care of me, and well . . . it’s gone from there really.” The giddiness is in her eyes and her voice again; it creates a glow that lights up her very skin. “He’s going to apply for a post with this international liaison department that’s based in London—it’s kind of like Interpol, I think. It’s a move he was thinking about anyway, but there’s an opening coming up. Anyway,” she says with a meaningful look, “what about you and Tom?”
I find I’m blushing, too. Tom is here, somewhere; he has just nipped out to get coffee for Lara. Tom is here, Tom is almost always here, to the point where yesterday I asked him if he still had a job. He gently pointed out it was Sunday, but that makes today Monday (It does, doesn’t it? Yes, it does), and he’s still here, holding my hand, dropping kisses on my (unwashed) hair, yet we’ve never talked about what that means. I’m saved from having to answer Lara’s question by the return of the man himself, armed with three coffees, though we all know I will fall asleep before I can drink mine.
Finally Modan and the British policeman come to see me with serious expressions that, head injury notwithstanding, I can interpret without them even having to open their mouths.
“You’re not charging her,” I say flatly, though they’ve yet to take a seat. I’m sitting up in bed in my private room (thank God I didn’t scrimp on health cover when I set up my own company). Tom, who was idly flicking through the sports section of a newspaper on a chair beside me, rises to meet Modan with what I can only describe as a man-hug. I keep meaning to ask about that, but I haven’t; another thing that has slipped through a crack.
“Well,” says PC Stone, whose name isn’t Stone, and who isn’t a PC, either; he’s probably a DI or something, but neither of those details will stick for me. “No, we’re not.” He spreads his hands wide, but the gesture is blunt and choppy; it lacks Modan’s elegant sweep. Then he hitches his trouser legs to settle in a chair and leans forward, elbows on knees, his broad, thick head topped with short gingerish bristles jutting forward like a bull preparing to charge; it would take more than a sea of white tiles to put a dent into that skull. Modan remains standing, seemingly just to emphasize the differences between the two: the stocky Brit and the beanpole Frenchman, one direct and no-nonsense, the other deviously charming. It’s actually a pretty effective mix. “The thing is, it’s just a he said, she said.” Surely a she said, she said? But he’s still talking; I must concentrate or I will lose track. “There’s no evidence she was even at your flat. No fingerprints on the wine bottle.”
“Not even Kate’s?” asks Tom meaningfully.
“Not even Kate’s. Which, yes, is strange, but it doesn’t prove a case against Miss Horridge. The date Kate’s phone was updated with the dealer’s number matches the date of her party, but that hardly proves anything.” He scratches at his stubble, his frustrated dissatisfaction clear.