Learning to Swim

I SLEPT HARD—IT WAS, I THINK, THE FIRST TIME I’D RELAXED since I’d found Paul. By the time I got to the breakfast table the guys had filled their plates and were deep in discussion about window latches. I helped myself to a fluffy waffle and strips of bacon, and smiled at Paul, who seemed to get a little worried if someone wasn’t participating in the conversation.

Then I caught the words Canadian Tire and Home Depot.

“What?” I said, in the tone that means Did I hear that right?

“We want to go pick up a few things for the house, some things Simon suggested,” Philippe said. The three of them looked at me expectantly. Apparently the male desire to roam the aisles of giant hardware stores is independent of age, financial status, or nationality.

“Oh, no,” I said, lining up sliced strawberries on my waffle. “You aren’t dragging me along.” To me this is the definitive gender difference—this and the Three Stooges. I hate wandering Home Depot searching for a particular screw or fixture, just as I have never found anything remotely funny about the Stooges.

The three of them grinned. “You’ll do just fine without me,” I said. “I can do computer stuff.”

They were clearly eager to be off, Paul delighted to be included in this guy fix-it stuff. I tousled his hair, and my eyes met Philippe’s. He nodded to acknowledge what I was trying to say: Be careful and don’t let him overdo it. I lightly punched Simon on the arm as he passed, which meant Watch out for Paul, and don’t say anything embarrassing about me.

I was glad Paul was going out in a normal visit-Canadian-Tire sort of Saturday, but the ordinariness of going off to hardware stores seemed strange in a way I couldn’t quite define. Of course keeping him cloistered at home couldn’t be good for him. Of course he would be safe with his father and with Simon, who pretty much automatically scanned every situation for possible threats.

Maybe I just didn’t like seeing Paul going off without me. Not your kid. I was going to have to keep reminding myself.

I finished my waffle, and vaguely thought about calling Thomas. The thought made me uneasy, which probably meant I should do it, my theory being that almost always the choice that makes you the most uncomfortable is the one you’re supposed to do.

It couldn’t have gone much worse. I had forgotten about giving the police his name, and he’d gotten a call from them. At least I had emailed him the basics, but even Thomas couldn’t manage to be completely phlegmatic about this.

“Troy, you don’t know anything about this guy,” he said, letting some asperity creep through his normal reserve. “You don’t know how he might have been involved in this. This could be dangerous.”

I’d waited a four count, then said, “I’ve got to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

I had thought it would be a relief to have Thomas drop his careful indifference, but it wasn’t. He had stepped out of the bounds of our carefully structured relationship, and I didn’t like it.

I didn’t want to hurt Thomas, but … but you want to keep him as a safety net, said that unpleasant inner voice. You aren’t ready to give him up yet.

I hate these moments of self-realization.

I called Baker, who knew that something was up for me to call her from Canada, and told her about Simon’s visit and about Thomas. “He seems almost jealous, which doesn’t make sense. I mean, I live with four guys, for Pete’s sake. And he doesn’t know that Philippe is, well …”

“Gorgeous?” Baker said.

“Well, yeah, and all the other stuff.”

“Like, rich? The Mercedes and the Armani and the hundred-dollar haircut?”

“Baker, you don’t have any idea what his haircuts cost.”

“No, but I’ll bet they do.”

I was silent. Baker’s sister was a hairdresser who had worked in New York City, so she was probably right.

“But Elise is here. And Paul.”

“Yes, there’s Paul, and that may be what scares Thomas the most. That’s the one thing he can’t compete with, and he knows it.”

I knew that Thomas didn’t want children, and clearly I did. And here I was with a real live child and his real live father.

I told Baker I’d keep her updated, and went up to use Philippe’s computer. I checked my Twitter account, then found more books on kidnapped children and looked up the nearest branch of the public library.

Then a little demon in my head made me wonder who had used that “Julia” identity I’d found in Outlook Express, and wonder if Philippe had had a girlfriend—maybe in Ottawa, which could be why he had moved here. Or maybe an assistant had used the computer. I could take a quick glance at email headings to see if they were work-related. So I opened Outlook Express, and clicked on the Julia identity.

But it asked for a password.

This was my downfall. It was a challenge that completely shut off the emotionally aware part of me and sent my brain into problem-solving mode. Instead of thinking This is private, back off, my brain said, Aha, something to solve. Without a twinge of guilt—because at this point it just seemed an intriguing puzzle—I tried the name of Philippe’s company, its address, Philippe’s name, and a few other possibilities.

Then it occurred to me that Philippe’s wife could have used this computer back in Montreal. This alone should have caused me to push back from the keyboard, but it didn’t. I tried Paul’s name, alone and in combination with what I guessed was his birth year. Madeleine didn’t work, but I hadn’t expected it to—almost no one is that obvious, especially when they’ve gone to the trouble of setting up a password. Then I tried it backward: enieledam.

It opened the program, like the door to Aladdin’s cave sliding open. Emails flowed onto the screen, one after the other, seemingly faster and faster. I watched, frozen. I could see enough of the subject lines flashing past to see that this had indeed been Madeleine’s email account. The first messages coming in were months old, but then more recent ones started dumping on the screen. My heart hammered. How could Madeleine’s friends not know she was dead?

The download stopped at last. My mouth was dry. That voice in my head told me: You are sitting at a computer used by Philippe’s dead wife.

There were dozens of unread messages, dating back to July, long before the kidnapping. Why would Madeleine not have read or downloaded her messages for all those months? Could she have disappeared before Dumond said she had?

For a long moment my brain was blank, and then I got it. I’ve done this myself: begun to use a new computer without deleting the email setup on the old one. Madeleine either hadn’t known or cared that her email program had been set to leave messages on the server—or that they would merrily download here if someone signed on.

Of course she had had no idea that someone else would open her account. Or that she would die and that Troy Chance would come along and sit at the computer she had shared with her husband, and randomly, rudely guess her password.

I stared at the screen.

I’d like to say that morality took over and kept me from reading any of the emails, and maybe it would have. But I heard voices downstairs. I switched back to Philippe’s identity, and closed the program.

And clattered down the stairs, pretending as hard as I could that I hadn’t just seen a dead woman’s emails.





THE GUYS HAD FOUND THE SPECIAL DOOR LOCKS SIMON HAD suggested, brighter outdoor bulbs, intricate window latches. Paul seemed fascinated—maybe it was good for him to see the house being made more secure.

I watched them opening their packages, but standing around and handing people screwdrivers isn’t my idea of a good time. I like fixing things, not watching other people do it. So I went for a quick run through the neighborhood, past the stately homes. Tiger was delighted to be out in the fresh spring air. I concentrated on putting one foot cleanly in front of the other and tried to not think about what I had just done. I was breathing hard sooner than I should have—too much of Elise’s cooking, too little exercise.

When I got back, the guys were setting out a tray of sandwiches, sliced veggies, and cookies Elise had left us before she went out. We ate in the kitchen perched on stools while Simon explained the virtues of the new locks. I tried to seem interested, like he does when I talk computers or bicycles. Tiger sat near Paul, who dropped pinched-off chunks of sandwich when he thought no one was looking.

We’d decided to do some sightseeing downtown after Paul took a short nap. Paul followed me to his room without protest, but seemed subdued. He was on overload, I thought—Simon’s visit and the Home Depot trip had been too much for him. His lip quivered as he perched on the edge of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned. “Qu’est-ce que c’est le problème?”

He burst into tears. Instinct told me this wasn’t just a fatigued child who didn’t want to take a nap. Something was horribly wrong. I folded him into my arms, murmuring to him as he cried against my shirt. I whispered questions; he choked out answers in French. It took me a while to comprehend.

Then I knew that the last prescribed nap Paul had taken was in Montreal, where he had gone to sleep a happy little boy in a lovely home with two parents and a nanny who adored him, and had woken up a prisoner in a small room far from home.

And he was afraid the same thing would happen here.

I took his face in my hands and told him he was safe here, that his father and Tiger and those new locks would never let a bad person in. When he calmed a little I went to get Philippe. I thought he might be upset that Paul had told all this to me and not to him, but he wasn’t. Maybe it had been easier to tell me in French because I didn’t understand it all—like talking in a confessional to someone you can’t see.

Philippe told Paul much the same as I had, and that if he wanted to read instead of nap, that was fine. Some of the tension began to leave Paul’s small body as he leaned against his father.

I pulled some books from the bookcase and looked questioningly toward Tiger, then the bed. Philippe nodded. I patted the bed and Tiger jumped up. I motioned to her to stay, although she seemed to know when she was needed.

We just told Simon that Paul was overtired, because neither of us wanted to talk about this small child being terrified that kidnappers would scoop him up during his nap. I went back and sat with Paul until he fell asleep, then Philippe took my place.

When Paul awoke we headed downtown to admire what looked like miles and miles of brightly colored tulips on the grounds of Parliament Hill. Philippe let Paul pick up a few petals that had dropped. I knew the story, but Simon didn’t: During World War II, Princess Juliana of the Netherlands had been evacuated here and had given birth in a hospital room temporarily declared international territory. So in appreciation the Netherlands ships over hundreds of tulip bulbs every year, and Ottawa has its Tulip Festival every May.

From Parliament Hill we walked over to the locks on the Ottawa River at the beginning of the Rideau Canal. They were a small boy’s dream—Paul was fascinated watching them opening and closing and the boats sinking along with the water level. I couldn’t help scanning every face around me for any resemblance to Simon’s sketches, not that it was logical that kidnappers from Montreal would be here. But I looked, and probably Simon and Philippe did, too.

Then we stopped at a chip wagon to buy poutine, which roughly translates to “mushy mess.” It’s thick french fries and white cheese curds with brown gravy poured over it, which you wash down with cold Pepsi guzzled from the can. It sounds awful, I know, but it’s delicious. I laughed as I saw Simon’s tentative expression turn to bliss. We explained to Paul that, no, you couldn’t buy poutine just anywhere, and this was the first time poor Simon had tasted it.

Fortunately Philippe had told Elise not to cook dinner, because none of us could have eaten. By the time Paul had his bath, his lids were drooping. We tucked him in, and he sleepily accepted a hug before settling down with his father for his bedtime story.

Back in the library, Simon looked at me intently. He gently pulled at a handful of his short curls, which sprang back as soon as he released them. I couldn’t read the expression in his green eyes.

“What?” I said. “What, what, what?!”

“They’re nice people, Troy. This is a nice place.”

But not my people and not my place. He didn’t say the words, but they rang in my head. “Simon, I know,” I said heavily, as we heard Philippe’s footsteps coming down the hall. “This is only temporary.”

He gave me a look that said, Just be sure not to forget that.





WE HAD DESSERT IN THE LIBRARY, THICK CHOCOLATE cake topped with fresh raspberries, and sipped red wine, which curiously enough went well together. Philippe told us about his marketing business and some of his clients: a brewery, a printer, a bank. We talked about the school Paul might attend, an English-speaking one so he would become fluent, and I told Philippe about a program that would let him access his work files from home.

In many ways it seemed like a pleasant evening with friends. But Simon’s policeman’s brain was hard at work, with some protective brother mixed in, and Philippe certainly was aware of it. With two less socially adroit people it could have been disastrous. Instead it ran just below the surface, like two movies showing simultaneously, one barely visible under the other.

Then Philippe played his face card. “Paul’s psychologist told me that Troy makes Paul feel safe, because she rescued him, and said it would be a big help to him if she could stay a few weeks.” Philippe glanced at Simon and then at me, and I answered the question before he asked it.

“Of course,” I said.

Simon’s body language signaled nothing—one of the great things about my brother. Yes, staying here longer would disrupt my life and make it all the harder when it was time to leave. I knew it; Simon knew I knew it, and wouldn’t point it out. Having a brother like this almost makes up for the rest of the family.

Philippe visibly relaxed. “That would be great. Whatever you need, I can set it up—a cell phone or anything else. You can use my computer, or I can get a desktop for your room.”

“I can just add a Canadian calling plan to my cell phone. I can use your computer when you’re out, if that’s okay.” I had one magazine article started I could finish from here. I should be looking for new assignments, but I always kept some savings in reserve.

“Of course,” Philippe agreed. “I’ll work from home whenever possible, but often I have to be in the office or meet with clients.”

“Do you regret leaving Montreal?” Simon asked.

The question seemed abrupt, but Philippe shook his head. “Too many memories. In a way it might have been good for Paul to be in his old neighborhood and school, but people would ask a lot of questions. Here we can skip all that and start fresh. School officials will know his mother died, and that he’s been away and missed school, but not much else. Eventually the news will come out, but it won’t hit as hard as it would have there.”

It was odd to hear it in such bland terms: His mother died. He’s been away and missed school. But it fit with Madeleine seeming so absent from this house, with her almost never being mentioned.

Simon asked, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about the kidnapping?”

“Not at all.”

I took this as my exit cue. Simon could ask more probing questions in my absence and Philippe could talk more freely, and I didn’t want to hear more grim details at this point. Simon would fill me in, probably just before he left tomorrow. I gathered our dishes, took a book from the shelves, and told them good night.



After a leisurely breakfast Simon said his goodbyes, delighting Elise with a hug and shaking Paul’s and Philippe’s hands. We had left time to do some sightseeing downtown before his flight, and just as I was about to give up and go into an absurdly expensive pay lot, a parking slot on the street magically appeared.

We strolled around looking at old buildings, then Simon spotted a poutine wagon and insisted on buying some. I passed—as tasty as it is, it can be a little like lead in your belly. Two days in a row is too much for me.

We sat on a nearby bench. “So,” I said, swiping a fry from his carton. “What do you think?”

Simon took a swig of his icy Pepsi. It was, he pointed out, the absolute perfect counterpoint to the greasiness of cheese and potatoes and the saltiness of the gravy. He thought before answering. “You have a good cop on the job here. Jameson’s a lot smarter than he lets on, and he’s going to keep digging on this.”

“Okay. But what do you think? Like, what do you think of Philippe?”

He gave me that grin that makes me want to smack him sometimes. “What do I think of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome?”

I punched his arm. “He can’t help any of that. So don’t hold it against him.”

Simon ate a few more cheese-covered, gravy-soaked fries before continuing. “Here are the things that police are going to stick on. First, the misdelivered ransom demand seems like a ploy, like Philippe moved the letter to a neighbor’s mailbox so he could miss the deadline and not notify the police right away.”

He held his hand up as I opened my mouth to speak. “It could be real. When John Paul Getty was kidnapped, one of the ransom demands was delayed for weeks because of a mail strike.” He went on, ticking off points on his fingers. “Second, why keep Paul so long? Kidnappers who are in it for money either usually kill the victim right away or release them when they get the ransom. The psychos or pedophiles keep the kids forever, or until they get too old. These guys asked for multiple ransoms, but then kept Paul more than a month longer before deciding to get rid of him.

“Third, cops are well aware husbands take extreme measures to get rid of wives. Scott Peterson, Perry March from Nashville, and so on.” He paused a moment. “There is a brother, and I’m sure the police are taking a good look at him as well.”

I was startled. “A brother?”

Simon nodded. “Philippe told me last night—his wife had a brother she was close to, who still works for Philippe.”

Paul had an uncle, living here? Working in the office I’d visited? I didn’t know which surprised me more: that this uncle hadn’t rushed to see his long-lost nephew or that Philippe hadn’t mentioned him.

We sat in silence for a few moments before Simon continued. “Philippe seems a little guarded when he talks about the kidnapping. Maybe he’s just tired of talking about it, and maybe he’s well aware he’s a prime suspect. But my sense is he’s holding something back. Maybe he has an idea who was behind the whole thing. Maybe his lawyer has told him to be careful what he says. Maybe he just feels bad that he assumed Paul was dead.”

He drew a deep breath. “Or maybe he instigated the whole thing, without meaning to. When he was angry or upset or drunk he could have said to the wrong person that he wanted to get rid of his wife—and someone carried through. Or he hired someone to snatch her to scare her, and they killed her and blackmailed him. It’s happened more than once.”

“But Paul—”

“Maybe Paul wasn’t supposed to be part of it. Maybe they weren’t supposed to take him, but they screwed up, or turned on Philippe. The thing is, bad guys are very unreliable, and very, very greedy.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“In a way it doesn’t matter, Troy,” he said gently. “Paul is home, with his father. He can build a new life. Maybe that’s what’s important.”

I looked at him in disbelief. “But … but Madeleine?”

“But someone killed her and someone has to pay for it?” Simon’s voice was calm. “Lots of murders are never solved, Troy. Lots of people get away with it, especially when no body is found. Maybe the kidnappers will be caught; maybe they won’t. Maybe Philippe will be cleared; maybe he won’t. This may be as good as it gets, and he may have to live with that.”

The words he didn’t say rang in my head: But can you live with it? We sat in silence.

“It’s a tough situation, kiddo,” he said at last. “I know you have to see it through. Just be careful, very careful.” He put his arm around my shoulders and rumpled my hair. “Keep me posted, and keep safe.”

We drove in silence to the airport. I gave him a quick hard hug at the curb, and then he was gone.

I’d expected Simon to give me an idea of what to do—or at least put things in black and white and reassure me that the bad guys would be caught. Instead, he seemed to be telling me this was one big gray mess with no clear answers, and I was on my own.

I didn’t believe Philippe would have done anything to harm Paul. But could he have planned a fake kidnapping, plotted to have his son’s mother killed? It was true he seldom mentioned her and didn’t have photos of her or her possessions scattered about—but no two people mourn the same. Some keep their dead spouse’s coat hanging on the hall rack the rest of their lives; others pack up everything the next week and clean house like mad. People cope in different ways. I knew that.



I got back to the house almost too soon. It seemed strange to use the garage door opener Philippe had given me and park next to his Mercedes as if I lived there. He was moving boxes around in the back of the garage, and waved me over. I looked down into a long box he had opened and saw a child’s bicycle, brand-new, shiny red and black. I could hear Paul’s voice telling me he’d been promised a vélo for Christmas but hadn’t gotten it.

“Paul’s bike,” I said into the cavernous silence.

Philippe nodded. “I got it for him for Christmas. Just in case.”

We gazed down at the bike, me envisioning Philippe going out in the middle of Christmas season to buy a bicycle for a child he had no real hope of ever seeing again, Philippe probably seeing Paul locked away, missing Christmas.

I broke the silence. “Are you going to give it to him now?”

“I’d like to. But I don’t want to upset him.”

I shook my head. “I think it’ll make him happy. You could ask the psychologist. But if it upsets him, you could just put it away.”

Philippe could drive himself crazy the next few weeks, months, even years, wondering if something might remind Paul of the kidnapping. But maybe the bad memories shouldn’t be buried—maybe they should be allowed to surface and erode away, bit by bit.

After a moment Philippe lifted the bike out. It was a top-of-the-line kid’s mountain bike with gears and caliper brakes, with handlebar dangling and front wheel, saddle, and pedals still in the box.

“I can put it together,” I offered. “I used to build bikes at a bike shop.” He blinked, but I think he was learning not to be surprised by me. He found the metric open-end and Allen wrenches and tube of grease I asked for, and watched as I assembled the parts, connected the brakes, adjusted the gears, and tightened the headset. I did have him pump up the tires.



When Paul got up from his nap, Philippe led him to the driveway, where we’d set the bike. Paul’s eyes widened and he ran his fingers over the bright red paint. At a nod from his father, he hopped on. My eyes were a little shiny, but I was snapping away with my camera, so no one noticed.

The bike was almost too large, and Paul had to be shown how to use the hand brakes, but he clearly knew how to ride. So it wasn’t that magical moment when a kid first successfully balances on a bike, but it was still big. An array of emotions ran across Philippe’s face. Maybe he was thinking of Paul’s mother missing this moment.

So maybe this whole recovery process was going to be trial and error. No one could predict how one particular child was going to react or adjust to a new life. But it seemed that a shiny new bicycle could help fill one hole in a small boy’s life.

And I imagined we’d just erased Paul’s fear of napping forever.



For dinner Elise made a stir-fry with lots of vegetables, probably a nutritional countermeasure to the poutine we’d had yesterday. After she went off to her apartment at the back of the house, the three of us watched Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. I thought it odd, but it must have been perfect for a six-year-old, because Paul loved it, watching cuddled in the curve of his father’s arm.

Tomorrow I’d take the sketches to Jameson at the police station, and Philippe would take Paul to visit his new school, both of which made me vaguely uneasy. Here Paul was safe, and we could spend cozy evenings watching movies. Here I could stash away memories of feeling like part of a family.

Tomorrow would be a return to real life. I wasn’t looking forward to it.





AT BREAKFAST PAUL WAS ALMOST TOO EXCITED ABOUT THE school visit to eat. Philippe wasn’t doing justice to Elise’s pancakes, so maybe he wasn’t as calm as he had seemed to be. Me, I thought too much was happening too soon for a small boy who had lost his mother and been confined for five months. But Philippe wanted Paul in a routine as soon as possible, and he was the parent, and I wasn’t. I wanted to take a quick run before heading to the police station, so I didn’t eat, just filled a plate and set it aside for later.

It was a clear morning, and Tiger and I ran smoothly for about two miles. Running doesn’t calm me as much as biking, but life seems easier afterward. I ate my warmed-up pancakes and sausages in the kitchen. If Elise hadn’t been there, I would have eaten them cold, wrapping the pancakes around the sausages. She was whisking around like a happy wren in an apron, marinating something for dinner and preparing pastry to be filled with fruit.

“Did Paul like school in Montreal?” I asked, wondering how he would do with new kids and new teachers, struggling to speak English.

Elise nodded, rolling out pastry dough. “Yes, he liked it very much. He had good teachers and many friends.”

“Did his school friends come over a lot?”

“No. No, Madame Dumond did not like so much to have the children over. Too much noise and fuss. But I would often take him to the park, where other children played, or to a friend’s house.”

I blinked. This was a surprise. Me, I’d want my kids’ friends over as much as possible, so my kid wasn’t watching R-rated movies, breathing secondhand smoke, or wolfing down Pop-Tarts or Pizza Pockets at someone else’s house. But some people don’t care for other people’s children, or are prone to noise-induced migraines. Or maybe Madeleine hadn’t quite been the involved, engaged parent I’d imagined. Which was an odd thought, but it could partly explain why Paul didn’t seem particularly to miss her.

After a quick shower I scanned Simon’s sketches so we’d have copies. I clipped Simon’s card to the originals and stuffed them in an envelope, then checked the route on MapQuest.

Walking into the police station was more than a little unnerving, especially since the same crisply put-together police officer was at the front counter. Sort of that Groundhog Day feeling again.

“I need to drop this off for Detective Jameson,” I told her.

“Your name, please?”

“I don’t … it’s Troy Chance, but I don’t need to see him; I just need to leave this.”

But she was already speaking into a phone, and Jameson was there before I could decide to drop the envelope and leave. He looked at me, brows raised.

“It’s some drawings.” I gestured with the envelope. “My brother did some new ones based on the others. With Paul’s help.” Jameson took the envelope and waggled his head for me to follow. I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already disappearing down the hall.

His office was smallish and astoundingly cluttered. He moved a box off a chair for me to sit, then sat behind the desk and opened the envelope. Without speaking, he spread the drawings out and studied them, first one and then the other. He pointed at the mole and looked up.

I nodded. “Paul told him to put it there.”

“Your brother didn’t suggest it?”

“No, Paul did. He said the man had a thing on his face, and he told Simon how big to make it.”

Jameson grunted and stuffed the drawings back in the envelope, and looked at the clock on the wall. “Let’s go to lunch,” he said abruptly. He scribbled something on a notepad, tore the page off and paper-clipped it to the envelope, and stood up.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, I’ve got other plans” or “No, I need to leave,” but I wasn’t fast enough. He whirled around, touching my elbow lightly to lead me out. At the front desk he handed the envelope to the woman, and then we were outside. I blinked in the sunlight. “My car’s over here,” he said, gesturing.

“I don’t …” I said, but he was opening the car door for me. I gave up and got in. We rode in silence and ended up at a restaurant in the ByWard Market, an area packed with galleries and cafés and outdoor vendors selling fruits and vegetables and crafts. It was a trendier restaurant than I’d expected; I’d pictured Jameson as the meat loaf and potatoes type. He pushed a menu at me and we ordered.

I drank the water the waitress brought us. We sat. Damned if I was going to open my mouth first. Finally, he said, “Is your brother still here?”

“No, he flew home yesterday.”

Dead silence. “Paul?”

“He’s good. His father is taking him on a school visit.”

“Are you working up here?”

“I’m finishing up a magazine article,” I told him, wondering why he was asking. I couldn’t work in Canada without a visa, but freelancing to the States wouldn’t count.

“What do you write for?”

“Sports magazines mostly, some airline magazines, some newspapers.”

“Pay well?”

I shrugged. “It varies. Some magazines pay a lot more than others.”

Our food arrived—a black bean burger for me, a regular one for him. I got most of mine down before he spoke again.

“So you’ve known Dumond how long?”

I had to think a moment. “Since Tuesday, so almost a week.”

“And you’re comfortable staying there?”

Was my room comfortable? Was I worried about staying with a man whose wife had been kidnapped and murdered? “Yes,” I said. “It’s quite comfortable.” The look he gave me said I’d answered the wrong question.

“Hmm.” He speared some french fries, then spoke. “Did you know Dumond’s business is having financial trouble?”

I set down what was left of my burger and wiped my hands carefully. Bean burgers tend to leak sauce and bits of bean, at least the good ones not made from preformed patties. “No, I didn’t. But that’s none of my concern.”

He went on. “Did you know Dumond and his wife had been having marital problems?”

I pushed back from the table. “No,” I said, trying not to show my anger. I had expected he would ask me questions, but I hadn’t expected this. “And that definitely is none of my business. Why are you telling me?”

He smiled a humorless smile. “Things that perhaps you ought to know.” He picked up his burger and took a bite. “Especially if you’re involved with him.”

I stared at him. “I’m not. But that’s not the issue.”

He said nothing.

“I cannot help what you believe or don’t believe,” I said with force. “But I can never and will never believe that Philippe Dumond ever did anything that would harm his son.”

He shrugged. “Maybe that part wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. This was too much like what Simon had said. I hadn’t considered at the time that the police might actually believe it. The walls were shimmering and the room almost shifting around me. Just keep breathing, I told myself. Breathe in, breathe out. “I want to go,” I said.

Without a word, Jameson paid the bill and followed me outside. Neither of us spoke. When his car stopped, I got out and didn’t look back.

On the way home I stopped at the public library and talked the librarian into issuing me a library card based on a piece of Philippe’s junk mail I’d brought along. To get a card you’re supposed to have something with your name and address on it, but because librarians want you to have a library card sometimes they’ll bend the rules. I checked out Girl in the Cellar, about an Austrian girl abducted at age ten, and requested three other books on kidnapping.

When I got back to the house, no one was home yet, so I went up to Philippe’s office and plugged in my laptop to download my emails. Simon had emailed that he was home; I answered and told him I’d delivered his sketches. I didn’t mention the conversation I’d just had with Jameson.

Next I tried to compose an email to Thomas. What could I say? I don’t miss you, so we probably should break up? If I were home, we would probably just gradually stop seeing each other and find reasons not to make the drive between Lake Placid and Burlington. No one would have to say, This just isn’t working out or I think we should see other people. Or the old It’s not you, it’s me. However true it might be.

But even I knew you couldn’t break up via email. I finally wrote a brief note apologizing for being sharp on the phone, and said that being here was something I had to do.

Then I flicked on Philippe’s computer. As it booted up, Madeleine smiled at me from across the room.

In this computer sat dozens of emails to and from Madeleine—just two clicks of the mouse away. They were like Blackbeard’s forbidden room, taunting me. I wanted desperately to read them. I wanted to know something, anything, about the woman who had been Paul’s mother and Philippe’s wife, who nobody would talk much about.

One of these emails could have a clue that would point the police away from Philippe. I could tell Philippe, Hey, look, I accidentally downloaded your wife’s emails and turn them over to the police. But surely the Montreal police would have checked her emails on the server, and would have already read them. Still, they could have missed something. I could read them and if I found anything promising, send it anonymously to the police here.

I opened Outlook Express. I opened Madeleine’s identity. I looked at the email headings. My fingers hovered over the mouse. One double-click and an email would be open on the screen in front of me, and I would be reading words written by Paul’s mother, by Philippe’s wife.

But that would be incredibly intrusive. And I couldn’t be sure that my main motivation wasn’t just nosiness, wanting to know more about Madeleine.

I shut down the program and switched off the computer.





THEN PAUL AND PHILIPPE WERE BACK. PAUL WAS ALMOST bubbling, talking in a mix of English and French about school and the children he had met and the lunch he had had, not so bad, but not nearly as good as Elise’s. He seemed amazingly normal, like any child excited about a school visit.

Paul went off to see Elise, and Philippe told me he was pleased with the school: the teachers were attentive, the classes small, and the security measures impressive. Quite a few diplomats’ children attended, and the grounds were gated, with several guards. They’d done some testing and made arrangements for enrolling Paul, including outfitting him with the school uniform. Paul would start school Thursday, giving him two more days to rest before then. This, I realized, was Philippe’s concession to my concerns.

Philippe would drive Paul to school before continuing to work, and Elise or I would pick him up. And when the regular school term ended soon, Paul would continue in a summer session to catch up on what he’d missed and work on his English.

But I still felt uneasy about all this.



And now, Philippe said apologetically, he did need to go in to his office, and would I stay with Paul?

“Of course,” I said. This was, after all, why I was here. After his father left, Paul flung his arms around my waist. I hoisted him up, and he wrapped his legs around me, leaning back.

“So, kiddo,” I said. “It’s just you and me for now. Seulement nous deux. What should we do?”

He cocked his head to one side, thinking. “First,” he said seriously, “we must play that game, the little men on the machine, l’ordinateur, eh?”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. He had picked up far more English than I had realized, maybe from hearing English television through the door when he was locked up. Or maybe in Montreal he had had some English-speaking friends whose homes he visited. “You’ve got it,” I said, swinging him to the floor. I’d brought along the CD with the game he liked, and we played it on his father’s computer until I called it quits. He, apparently, could have played until his fingers went numb.

“Now for some quiet time,” I said, and led him to his room. He didn’t argue, and fell asleep quickly. He still tired easily.

I was walking down the hall to the library when Elise called me to the phone. “It’s Monsieur Dumond,” she whispered as she handed it to me.

“Hello?” I said, figuring he was calling to check on Paul.

“Troy, it’s Philippe. How is everything?”

“Good. Paul and I played computer games, and now he’s taking a nap.”

“Troy, I don’t think I’ve mentioned that Madeleine’s brother, Claude, works for me.”

Ah, the mysterious uncle. “No-o-o-o,” I said. “But Simon said something about him.” I didn’t point out that Philippe had scarcely mentioned Madeleine, let alone her brother. Or that it seemed odd I was just hearing about this brother.

“Claude manages things when I’m gone; he’s the only employee, in fact, who moved with me from Montreal. He’s very eager to see Paul. But I’m not sure if it would be good for Paul to see him, to be reminded of his mother just yet.”

I listened to the faint hum of the phone line. There had to be a reason Paul hadn’t seen his uncle as soon as he got home. I chose my words carefully. “Were they close?”

“No. Claude came over for dinner occasionally, but he’s single and doesn’t have children.” And isn’t crazy about them. He didn’t say it, but might as well have.

“We could ask Paul.” I stopped, feeling out the words. “But, Philippe, Paul only mentioned his mother the one time, when he told me what happened. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

Silence for a moment. “He was the same with the police. Apparently he blurted it out and wouldn’t talk anymore.” Philippe paused. “I’m going to put Claude off. I’ll tell him Paul’s doctor has advised against it for now. Excuse me a minute.” I could hear him conferring with someone, then he was back. “I have to go. I’ll see you soon, Troy.”

See you when you get home, dear. I knew I was in a pseudo-wife, pseudo-mom, pseudo-governess role here, and I knew I was falling into it a little too easily.

I went looking for Elise, hoping she would tell me something about this uncle. I found her leaning stiffly against the kitchen counter, and just the fact that she wasn’t in motion told me something was wrong.

“What is it?” I asked, my voice sharp with concern.

She pointed to the laundry room. I took a step forward. I could see several pairs of small underwear and socks, damp and wrinkled, laid out on the dryer. Clearly Paul’s. I gave her a puzzled look.

“They were hanging in his bathroom.” Her voice was so low I could barely hear her.

We stared at the damp clothes. “He’s been washing them out,” I said. He could have been bedwetting, but that wouldn’t explain the socks. Then I remembered the clothes Paul had worn when I’d found him: shirt, underwear, and socks had all been gray and dingy. And then realization dawned, and I felt cold. While Paul was captive he must have been washing his clothes in his bathroom sink. At age six. Either his kidnappers had told him to, or he’d figured it out on his own.

And since he’d been doing it for months, he’d kept on doing it here, despite the stacks of clean new clothes in his dresser.

It took a moment before I could speak. I cleared my throat. “I think he’s forgotten that you use the washing machine. I think he had to wash his own clothes while he was gone.” I couldn’t make myself say while he was captive. While he was kidnapped. While he was imprisoned.

Elise looked at the clothes, and tears slid down her cheeks. I blinked hard, so there weren’t two of us standing there crying.

“Just put these in the wash,” I said. “I’ll talk to Paul after his nap and tell him you like washing clothes in the machine, and ask him to put them in his hamper for you. And I’ll tell Monsieur Dumond about it tonight.”

So when Paul awoke I pointed out his hamper and told him how much Elise liked using her big new washer, hoping I wasn’t instilling a lifelong belief that women loved doing laundry. I showed him his stacks of clean things in his dresser, and said his papa would be happy to buy him more when these were worn out or too small.

After Paul went to bed that evening, I talked to Philippe. It was hard to tell him and hard for him to hear, but this was when I began to understand the significance of my role here. Elise couldn’t cope with these painful reminders; I could. I was the path between the old life and the new.

I could see Philippe file this away: something else to ask the psychologist about.

Claude had been upset he couldn’t see Paul immediately, Philippe told me, but had said he understood. “I’d wanted to tell him in person about Paul coming home, but the police contacted him before I got the chance,” he said.

Philippe had been right, I thought, to want to break the news to Claude in person. Learning that your nephew had returned but not your beloved sister would be bittersweet—an odd mix of emotions for anyone. Personally I couldn’t imagine not being on my nephew’s doorstep if he’d just gotten home from being kidnapped, but then I like my nephews a lot more than I like my sisters.

After I went to bed I started reading the library book about the ten-year-old kidnapped Austrian girl, who’d been kept in a cellar much of the time before escaping when she was eighteen. People wondered why she hadn’t tried to escape sooner, because she had sometimes been out in public with her captor, but not until she’d been imprisoned a few years. Like the Dugard girl in California, who was kidnapped and kept for eighteen years. People don’t understand how completely children rely on the adults around them, how quickly they recognize that their survival depends on the person in control of them. And how vulnerable they are to whatever the kidnapper tells them.

The envelope with my copies of Simon’s drawings lay on my desk. I pulled them out and looked at the faces—these men had been Paul’s only contact with humanity for five months.

After I crawled back into bed, I couldn’t get their faces out of my mind.





IN THE NIGHT I AWOKE SUDDENLY, COMPLETELY. THOUGHTS sprang into my brain with the clarity that arrives only in the middle of the night. If I had taken Paul to the police as soon as I found him, maybe they could have gotten sketches that day, better ones, while the images were fresher in Paul’s mind, before he’d blanked them out, replaced them with happier memories and friendlier faces. The police could have searched for the men right away, before they had fled far from Vermont and New York, in who knows what direction.

If they don’t find them, it’s your fault, that insistent voice said.

I looked at the bedside clock: 2:16. I know that logic doesn’t work at these hours, but I couldn’t escape the cold truth I’d been dodging up until now: I’d had no business deciding not to take Paul to the authorities. You just wanted to keep him to yourself, the voice said. I reached out to stroke Tiger’s warm fur. She stirred only slightly.

With a groan, I swung my legs out of bed. I wish my conscience would come alive during the day, when the distractions of daytime life help obscure those sharp, prodding thoughts. In the middle of the night, there are no gray areas—it’s all black and white. I decided I’d look for something light to read to help shut out that insistent little voice.

On the way down the hall, I heard something from Paul’s room. The door was ajar, and I pushed it open gingerly. By the glow of the night-light I could see him, curled on his side, facing away from me. His covers were in a knot at his feet, so I tiptoed forward to pull them over him.

I’d just bent over the bed when I heard movement behind me. I started to turn and saw a dark shape, large, coming at me, and then my arms were immobilized and a hand over my mouth. I began a silent, desperate struggle, kicking blindly backward and trying to wrestle my arms free. The whisper in my ear took a moment to penetrate: “Troy, Troy, stop, it’s me, it’s Philippe.”

I stopped struggling, relief making my legs weak. The hand on my mouth disappeared, and Philippe was backing me out of the room, then leading me down the hall to the kitchen.

“What were you doing?” I demanded after he flicked a light on.

He scratched his head. He was barefoot, in a white T-shirt and blue-and-white striped pajama bottoms, his hair tousled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was dozing and saw someone moving toward the bed. Then I realized it was you, but didn’t want you to scream and wake Paul. What were you doing, anyway?”

“I couldn’t sleep and I was going to get something to read. Then I heard a noise from Paul’s room, and I was going to fix his covers. But …” I was confused.

“Why was I there?” Philippe sat at the kitchen table and began rubbing his shin through his pajama leg, where I’d kicked him with my heel. He looked like a small boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “I’ve been sleeping in there.”

“Sleeping in there? What, in the top bunk?”

“No, in the armchair.”

I stared at him, and he added, “Just until early morning, and then I go up to my room. But I can’t … I don’t want to let him out of my sight.”

I leaned back against the counter, trying to rearrange my features from my accusatory stare. I could still feel my heart hammering. “I think that’s normal. I mean, you can’t spend every night in his room.”

“No, of course not, but for now … I just can’t …” His voice trailed away. He ran his fingers through his hair, almost angrily. “I let him get kidnapped once; I didn’t keep him safe. I almost lost him forever.”

I moved toward him, kneeling beside the chair where he sat, and put my arms around him. Without hesitation he folded his arms around me. He was warm, smelling vaguely of fresh laundry, a crisp cologne.

“It’s not your fault, Philippe,” I said into his ear. “You can’t always protect people.”

His shoulders moved in a single compulsive silent sob; I rubbed his back, warm through the T-shirt. He must have sensed that kneeling on the floor was uncomfortable for me because he stood, pulling me with him, and we clung to each other, swaying a little. After several long moments he shifted, and I could feel him through his pajama pants, hard against me, and my body pulsed in response. I didn’t move. Our hearts were thudding, almost echoing in the quiet kitchen.

“I don’t want to be alone now,” he said. His face was stark, drained, tired.

I could only guess how I looked. The pull I felt toward him was almost palpable. It seemed that if I left the warmth of his arms I’d break into a hundred tiny pieces, shatter on the kitchen floor into shards that could never be put back together again.

“Philippe, I can’t …” I whispered. “Your—”

Your wife? Your child? I wasn’t even sure what I was going to say.

He put his finger on my lips. “I know.” Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. He pulled me with him, toward the library, and sat me on the sofa. He knelt by the fireplace, opened the damper, and lit the stacked firewood with a starter from a slot beside the hearth. He closed the mesh screen and then moved toward me, pulling a thick afghan off the back of the sofa and sitting beside me in one easy motion. We swung our legs up and he draped the afghan over us. He pulled me toward him and I lay in the circle of his arms, my face against his chest. My heart was pounding crazily. He was stroking my back under the afghan, short, comforting movements, and gradually I relaxed. He kissed the top of my head once, and we lay quietly for five minutes, ten. Neither of us spoke. His hand started moving more slowly. I shifted slightly, but his breathing deepened and then his hand stilled. He was asleep. I wanted to stay conscious, to savor the warmth of his body against mine, the sound of his breathing. Come morning, I knew we’d almost certainly act as if this had never happened. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and slid into a dreamless sleep.





PAUL WOKE US, POUNCING ON US, GIGGLING AT FINDING US asleep in the library. “Pourquoi dormez-vous dans la bibliothèque?” he asked.

Philippe reacted quickly, pulling his arms from under the afghan and reaching for his son. “Because,” he said, pulling Paul up on the sofa and tickling him lightly, “we woke up s-o-o-o early there was no sunlight and it was chilly, so we made a nice fire to watch instead.”

I disentangled myself, stiff from sleeping in one position. “And the fire made us sleepy, so we fell back asleep,” I added.

“But it’s time to get you dressed, little one.” Philippe scooped Paul up and carried him down the hall, giggling, under his arm.

I headed to my room, grateful it was Paul who had found us and not Elise. I pulled on running clothes, called Tiger, and on the way out told Elise I’d be late for breakfast. Maybe it was just my conscience that made the look she gave me seem odd.

As my feet pounded rhythmically on the pavement, scenes from the past week cycled through my head. Me in Philippe’s arms. Madeleine’s emails downloading onto the screen. Jameson warning me about Philippe. The flicker of concern I’d seen from Simon when he’d first seen me with Philippe and Paul. The look Elise had just given me.

Of course I knew this was dangerous territory. Of course I knew I should leave before I let my heart get broken, by Paul or Philippe.

Of course I wasn’t going to.

When I got back I toweled off and pulled on a sweatshirt and shorts, then slid into my seat just before the others finished.

Philippe looked up with a smile, an errant lock of hair falling on his forehead. I could see a pulse thumping in his throat, a small patch on his chin not shaved quite as closely as the surrounding area. I could, without much effort, imagine his cheek against mine, his breath on my neck, my fingers in his hair.

But that wasn’t the way this script was written. I was his son’s temporary substitute mother; last night I had been a pair of comforting arms. I knew the type of woman Philippe liked—stylish, fashionable, sophisticated. Like Madeleine. There had been a spark between us, but one we couldn’t let ignite for many reasons, the most important of which was sitting at this breakfast table with messy hair, finishing his sausage.

“You went to run early,” Paul proclaimed.

“Yes, I did,” I said, patting my tummy. “I’ve been eating so much of Elise’s good food that I needed some exercise before breakfast.”

For some reason Paul found this very funny—I’ll admit I don’t always get six-year-old male humor.

Philippe smiled, and in this moment I could forget the ugly facts of kidnapping and murder and the looming threat of kidnappers. I could forget that this wasn’t my life and that all too soon I would have to begin the painful process of extricating myself from it.

Paul was happy. For now, that was all that mattered.



Philippe went off to work and I left Paul playing with his racetrack and joined him after my shower. Piles of his old clothing were still lying about, and I tentatively suggested boxing up some that were obviously too small. He surprised me by agreeing.

He took it seriously, as he did most things, trying on each piece of clothing and handing me the ones that didn’t fit. He had far more preppy clothing than I knew a small boy could possess, all fine quality and showing almost no wear. I wondered if his mother had picked them out, or if she and Philippe had done it together. Or maybe this was something a nanny did.

Paul watched me letter PAUL’S OUTGROWN CLOTHES on the boxes and fold down the lids.

“When you want,” I told him, “you can give these things away for someone else to wear, someone smaller than you.”

He nodded. “Pete,” he said, naming Baker’s youngest.

“You’re right.” I was surprised he had thought of it. “These would be great for Pete, or maybe Rick.” Of course Pete and Rick then would be the best-dressed kids in Saranac Lake, but it might be a welcome change from hand-me-downs. And it wouldn’t take long for them to make these clothes look lived-in. “When I go back I can take them to them.”

“When you go back,” he repeated, his dark eyes luminous, almost tearful. It was too easy to forget how fragile he was.

I reached out and touched his cheek. “I can’t stay here forever, sweetie. I have my house, remember, and Zach and Baker—and Tiger needs her lake to swim in. But we’ll be here awhile, and I can always visit. It’s only a few hours.” I translated into French as best I could.

He wasn’t quite happy with this, and I was annoyed with myself for upsetting him. I grabbed him up and tickled him lightly; then we heard Elise call us.

Zach was standing in the front foyer grinning, next to a beaming Elise.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, astonished.

“Philippe th-th-thought you’d like to have your bicycle, so he asked if I could bring it up. Dave let me take his car.”

I was almost speechless. Then I turned to Elise. “Elise, have you met my roommate Zach?” She nodded, and her smile told me she’d been in on this.

“Zach, Zach!” Paul squealed, grabbing Zach’s hands and launching into a burst of excited French.

I laughed at Zach’s expression. “Paul, he doesn’t understand French—Il ne comprend pas le français. Zach, Paul says he has a new room and lots of toys and is starting a new school and has clothes for Baker’s children and maybe you can take them.”

Zach blinked and nodded; this was way too fast for him.

Elise scurried to set out thick sandwiches for us while Paul chattered to Zach as if he were a long-lost brother. After lunch Paul showed Zach his room and his toys, and we talked Paul into a nap, a very, very short one, while Zach and I unloaded my bike and gear. He had brought along my toolbox, bike stand, the crate with my helmet, bike shoes, shorts, and gloves—plus an armful of clothes on hangers and some folded jeans from my closet. This wasn’t like Zach; I figured Philippe must have suggested it.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked.

“Sure. Fried chicken. Elise told me.”

After Paul got up we played endless computer games, and then Philippe was home, looking weary but pleased. I caught his eye and mouthed Thank you.

At dinner Zach ate so much that Paul watched in awe. Elise, bringing refills from the kitchen, began to look worried, and I kicked Zach under the table. Philippe asked Zach if he’d like to stay over, but he declined, saying he needed to get the car back to Dave. After dinner Elise packed a box with sandwiches and fruit for Zach, plus a bag of pastries he promised to share with Dave.

I tried to give Zach cash for gas and the bridge toll, but he said Philippe had taken care of it. Men apparently are more adroit about these things.

I eyed the carton of food on the seat beside Zach. “Think you have enough chow there?”

“I’m a growing boy,” he said, flashing his smile. He’d probably have half of it eaten before reaching the bridge to New York. He drove off, car sputtering.



I went to thank Philippe, and found him in the library.

“I hope you didn’t mind,” he said. “I wondered if you might want Zach to bring something specific, but I wanted to surprise you.”

“No, that was fine. And Zach did bring up some of my other stuff.” I didn’t mention that I knew Zach wouldn’t have done it on his own.

We sipped coffee and nibbled shortbread cookies. The psychologist had okayed Claude visiting, Philippe said, as long as no one mentioned Paul’s mother and there were no emotional scenes. Which I thought would have been obvious. I also thought it obvious I didn’t fit in at a family reunion, and said so.

“No, no, I think it’s better for Paul that you’re there,” Philippe said.

And kid-needs-you trumps you’re-going-to-be-miserable-meeting-mysterious-uncle. How could it not be painfully awkward, with Paul, his father, and uncle—but no Madeleine, and me there instead?

“Does Claude know about the, uh, ferry and rescue?” I asked.

Philippe shook his head. “He knows you found Paul and that you came here to help him settle in, but I wasn’t comfortable telling him about Paul in the lake. Claude likes to dig at things, and can’t leave them alone.”

“But wouldn’t the police have told him?” Something along the lines of Someone tried to drown your nephew and Do you have any idea who?

“Probably.” He paused, weighing his words. “But if I haven’t told him, then he won’t discuss it here.”

So if the host doesn’t acknowledge the pink elephant in the room, the other guests can’t either. I could see this being a useful standard—not that any of my friends would ever follow it.

At least Claude wouldn’t ask me questions about the ferry incident. I wished Philippe could have avoided telling him I was the one who had found Paul, but he had to explain my presence here. And maybe the police had told him anyway.

So Madeleine’s brother would be coming to dinner tomorrow night.

That night my thoughts tumbled together as I lay in bed: Paul and Philippe and kidnappers and Claude and Madeleine and Elise and Jameson. How quickly I was becoming entrenched here and how these people were weaving themselves into my life, and I was weaving myself into theirs. But this wasn’t my world. I wasn’t used to not being in control, not living in my own space, not making all the decisions.

It was a sensation I didn’t particularly like.





THIS MORNING PHILIPPE WAS TAKING PAUL TO ANOTHER psychologist’s appointment. I watched Elise cooking chocolate pudding—I’d been in college before I realized pudding could be prepared any way other than instant. To me cooked pudding still tastes oddly smooth and creamy.

I wanted to ask her questions. I wanted to ask what Paul’s mother had been like and what kind of mother she had been. I wanted to know what her marriage to Philippe had been like. I wanted to know how and why Philippe had abandoned his old home and life and seemingly so readily blocked out everyone but Elise and his brother-in-law.

But of course I couldn’t.



I needed to go for a ride. My bike is the one place I’m fully comfortable, where I own my space in a way I don’t on two feet, where the rhythm of pedals turning and wheels humming along the pavement lets my brain work smoothly and I can work out my problems. Usually.

I went out to the garage and lifted my bike into the work stand. It was gritty from my last ride down River Road at home, where sand spread for traction lingers long after the snow melts. I cleaned the frame, wiped the chain, scraped crud from the derailleur pulley wheels, and lubed the pivot points. I had disconnected the cables from the derailleurs and was dripping Tri-Flow into the housing when I heard a car door. When the connecting door into the house opened I looked up to see Jameson, wearing jeans and a shirt open at the neck.

I stood up and wiped my greasy hands with a rag. “What are you doing here?” As I said it, I realized it sounded rude. He held out something black—the daypack I’d left on the Burlington ferry.

“How did you get this?” I asked in surprise. I had thought about asking Thomas to retrieve it, but that would have required explanations I hadn’t wanted to make.

Jameson reached out and lightly spun the front wheel of my Cannondale. The tick-tick-tick sound it made echoed against the walls of the garage. “We sent someone to Burlington. It was in the lost and found department.”

I nodded. “I left it on the deck when I jumped in.” So the Ottawa police were checking into things in Burlington. I unzipped the pack and peeked inside, wincing at the thought of policemen looking through my notebook, my toiletries, my change of clothes.

“You were on your way to see your boyfriend.”

“Yes. Well, the guy I was dating.” I didn’t try to explain why they weren’t the same thing. Or why I’d used the past tense.

“And you saw no one with Paul.”

I shook my head. “No. I told your guys. I just saw him falling toward the water. I never looked up toward the deck. I just dived in.”

He was watching me closely. “And Paul was where?”

I frowned. “He was on the back of the ferry going to Port Kent.”

At first I couldn’t figure out why he was asking, and then I got it: He thought Paul had been thrown in from my ferry—and that I had seen it happen. He thought I was shielding someone who would try to drown a child. For a moment I couldn’t speak.

“Look,” I said finally. “I was on the ferry to Burlington. Paul was on the ferry to Port Kent. I didn’t see anyone.”

He waited a long moment, and when I didn’t speak again, he pressed the button that opened the garage door and walked out.

I returned to my bike, moving by rote, reconnecting the cable housing and checking the shifting. So the police thought I’d happened to see Paul being thrown in and refused to tell them what I’d seen. Or that I’d been involved with the kidnappers. I could see the logic: Kidnappers want to dump the kid, soft-hearted female accomplice revolts. Paul would have told them he hadn’t seen me before, but he was only six. And in theory I could have been involved without him ever seeing me.

So I was in cahoots with the kidnappers—but had rescued Paul and cheerfully returned him home? And now was living with father and kidnapped child? This made my head hurt.

I put the tools in my toolbox, washed up, and climbed the stairs to Philippe’s office. I turned his computer on. Maybe the police had read these emails, and something in them had made Jameson suspect Philippe. Or maybe something in them would help clear him.

I needed to know.

I took a deep breath, opened Outlook Express, and went to Madeleine’s emails. I clicked on the first and oldest one, and started reading. By the time I had read the first half dozen, my stomach began to roil, but by then I couldn’t have stopped, like not being able to look away from a car crash. Because many of the incoming emails quoted her emails and her Sent folder held outgoing emails, I could read ones she had written as well as those she’d received. Only about a third were in English, but I could read enough French to understand the gist of the others. I skimmed them, one by one, with a growing sense of nausea.

I couldn’t tell Philippe about these, not now, not ever. I hoped he had never seen them. Some of the emails, the ones written to people on committees or in Philippe’s business circle, were professional and polite, with a touch of humor. But the emails to her personal friends were entirely different. It almost seemed like reading a teenager’s diary. She spoke scathingly of Philippe and never mentioned Paul; she talked of shopping and vacations and made crass sexual jokes. Her tone with male correspondents was coy and suggestive.

I couldn’t reconcile these emails with the elegant, graceful woman looking at me from across the room.

How could Philippe have been with a woman like this? Had he known this side of her?

And the next thought followed immediately: If he did, how could he not have wanted to get rid of her?

I wanted to try to forget I’d ever seen these emails, to hit Control A and the Delete button and empty the trash so they’d be gone for good. But they weren’t mine to delete.

Neither had they been mine to read, but that was done. And there could be something in these emails that would lead to the kidnappers: a name, a date, a hint of what Madeleine had done her last few days. Maybe the police had seen them, maybe not; maybe they had missed something in them.

I printed them out. I ran the French ones through an online translation program and printed the translations. I turned the computer off and went down and hid the stack of paper in the bottom drawer of my dresser, my stomach churning. I had crossed a line I’d thought I would never cross.

I went to ask Elise for something to quiet the turmoil in my gut. She gave me some Gelusil, a crunchy tablet that tasted like a Di-Gel. Then I went for my ride, and I rode hard.



Paul and Philippe were back from the psychologist visit and in good spirits when I returned. It had gone well, Philippe told me. The psychologist had said that Paul washing out his clothes and his reaction to napping showed he was processing what had happened to him and adjusting to his new environment. And Paul seemed okay with the idea of seeing his uncle tonight. Just not eager.

Part of me wanted to meet a relative of Madeleine’s, but part of me didn’t. Maybe Philippe had had the right idea moving here: new house, new town, new school, new friends—even new language. Let the past go. Unfortunately the part of Philippe’s past known as his brother-in-law had moved with him.

After lunch Philippe headed to work, and Paul went off for a nap. I agonized over what to wear. Shopping is one of those girl skills left out of my DNA. This is where I need friends like Kate, who can effortlessly find great clothes at bargain prices and could have had me outfitted in no time. I settled on my cord slacks and a pullover from among the stuff Zach had brought up. I tried to iron the slacks, but Elise appeared and took the iron from me. Whenever I try ironing, whatever I’m working on ends up more wrinkled than when I started. I should call it wrinkling instead of ironing.

“So Paul’s uncle lives here in Ottawa,” I said as Elise deftly wielded the iron. She gave me a quick look that somehow said that Claude wasn’t her favorite person, then nodded.

“He and his sister were very close?”

Another nod. “Mostly,” she said, and the tone of her voice told me she wasn’t going to say more. Good nannies did not gossip, and she was a good nanny.

“So does Paul have other aunts and uncles?” I asked.

This Elise answered readily enough. “No, Monsieur Philippe is an only child, and there were only Claude and Madeleine.” She handed me a crisply pressed pair of slacks, and I thanked her.

Philippe got home a scant fifteen minutes before Claude arrived, with just enough time to greet us and go change. By the time he reappeared, Claude was there. My heart was hammering—I felt as I were going to meet a part of Madeleine.

But if Claude resembled his sister, I couldn’t see it, except his hair color. His features were indistinct, and he was good-looking in a careless way, with wispy blondish hair and a diffident manner. He was flawlessly polite, shook my hand briskly, and presented Paul with a small stuffed dog that talked when you squeezed it. Paul accepted it with equal politeness and said in careful English, “Thank you, Uncle Claude.”

Not even a hug, for a child who had been gone for months. But somehow I wasn’t surprised.

It wasn’t a scintillating evening, to put it mildly. Paul was dressed neatly with his hair carefully combed, and Tiger banished to the kitchen. The food was exquisite. But Paul was listless and answered in monosyllables. Philippe’s manners were impeccable, but he wasn’t what you could call relaxed. Me, I’m not that comfortable in new social situations in the first place, and this was particularly awkward. You couldn’t discuss Madeleine or what had happened to Paul, and you could only say so much about the weather and how good the food was. It didn’t help that Claude occasionally lapsed into French he assumed I couldn’t understand, although Philippe steadfastly responded in English. The meal dragged interminably, and Paul asked to be excused before dessert.

“He starts school tomorrow,” I offered, trying to fill the silence.

Claude was taking tiny precise bites of his cheesecake when Philippe rose. “Excuse me for a moment, please. I just need to check on Paul.” I nearly panicked that Philippe was leaving me alone with Claude, whom I disliked without entirely knowing why.

Then Claude turned to me, and my hackles went up. “I’m rather confused about your connection,” he said pleasantly.

“Connection?”

“To the family.” He sipped his coffee and eyed me, almost mockingly. “Are you working here?”

“Oh, no, just staying awhile, until Paul is settled in. Just to help out.”

“How amazing that he turned up, so long after he was taken. So you found him?”

I nodded. “Yes, I did.” I watched for a reaction, but his face remained blank. I know statistically it’s usually family members who commit violence against each other, and Claude made me uncomfortable.

He went on. “My little nephew seems very attached to you.”

“Yes, well, I’m very fond of him.”

“And Philippe, too.” He smiled.

The innuendo was apparent now. Gloves off.

I reminded myself this man’s sister had died tragically. I reminded myself he was Paul’s uncle. I forced a smile. “Yes. Philippe, too.”

Philippe returned at last. “So sorry it took so long. Paul’s rather excited about school tomorrow.” He and Claude chatted about work, while I tried not to let my eyes glaze over. At last Claude rose to leave, and on his way out said something in French I didn’t catch. After the door shut behind him, I sighed. Philippe laughed.

“I’m sorry.” I was aghast that I’d made my relief so apparent.

“No, no, it’s all right. Claude isn’t a wonderful conversationalist, unless it’s a business deal, and he was beside himself trying to figure you out. And losing Madeleine has been very hard on him. They were very close—they lost their parents when they were quite young. I’m sorry it was uncomfortable for you.”

Of course sitting at a table with his brother-in-law, nephew, and me, with his sister gone, had been difficult. Of course it was worse because they had no other family, and I felt a pang of regret for my lack of compassion. For Claude’s first meeting with Paul, I should have been absent. On this, I think, Philippe had been wrong.

But this was the most I’d heard Philippe say about his wife.