The cold sank into her bones and her ears burned. At least here no one could ask questions. Maybe it was for the best. First numbness, then nothing. Easier than living with grinding worry and indecision. She sagged: a test of surrender. The wind slipped by in sharp needles. She was incapable of moving. Of reacting. For the first time in weeks her mind was calm. No more lies. An end to everything.
Unexpectedly something hit her like a hard slap on the back. She slipped from the bench and her hands flew out in front of her. She fell, striking the hard cold ground. The pain wasn’t in her cheekbone or even the wrist that twisted awkwardly under her torso; the pain was in her chest and down her arms. She was confused. Her cheek was pressed to the ice and it was too great an effort to push herself up; the cold ground contrasted with the strange warmth spreading inside her, like a coating.
With great clarity she thought of what might have been. She had allowed the past to confuse her. She could no longer judge time and it didn’t matter. She shook uncontrollably and her vision clouded. She whispered: “I was wrong, I don’t want to die.”
One
“I thought you’d left.”
The offices of the newly formed violent crimes division of the s?reté were unusually quiet for late afternoon and the voice startled Agnes Lüthi. She looked at the perfectly coiffed redhead in front of her desk and shut her drawer like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Involuntarily both women glanced over the desk and shelves. The brushed aluminum and white surfaces gleamed. Not a photograph remained of the dozen that the staff had so carefully placed after moving Agnes’s belongings from her old office at financial crimes, and what had been a tribute to a loving family was now a sterile workspace. Files, reference books, and procedure manuals were all in place, but no trace of her husband or her three sons remained.
Agnes met the other woman’s gaze and said nothing. She saw a flicker of uncertainty followed by sadness as her colleague’s eyes skimmed her disheveled hair and tweed suit.
“Monsieur Carnet was sorry to lose you, but change is good.” The redhead paused. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“Thank you,” Agnes mumbled, startled by the mention of Robert Carnet. The invitation to transfer from his division into violent crimes couldn’t have come at a better time. She tugged the hem of her jacket self-consciously, no longer optimistic about losing the ten pounds that seemed to come with her brand of grief.
“We’re happy to have you with us,” the other woman said. “Chief Bardy should have been here today to get you sorted out. It’s all new, this group he has in mind. Even the offices are new.” She shrugged slightly and leaned forward. “He’s a bit distant and if you need … well, if you need more time off just let me know and I’ll handle him. We’ve talked about it”—she glanced around—“and we can cover for you. Anytime. Monsieur Carnet said you might need … he said your boys might need you.”
Anger flashed through Agnes and it was difficult to speak. Pity and concern were bitter medicine; she wanted anonymity. “Carnet has no idea what my boys need. None whatsoever.” She ran a hand through her short hair, instantly regretting it. Wondering if she looked like a porcupine had landed on her head.
“I really came to say welcome and to let you know they’re sending everyone home. All nonessentials.” The woman rolled her eyes with a smile. “Be thankful you’re still nonessential. A bit early in my view, but the news on Espace 2 has announced that this will be the storm of the century. The rain is turning to ice, and if you don’t leave now you may be stuck for the weekend.”
She gave a cheery wave and turned, but not before Agnes saw the uncertainty on her face. No one knew how to treat her, what to do with her. She was certain there was an abundance of euphemisms for her situation. She had heard the whispered exchanges. “Grieving.” “Still in shock.” Each in some way an accurate expression. It was the other unsaid thoughts that angered her, although it was to be expected. Even her place in Bardy’s group was undefined. The invitation to join violent crimes as part of a special team he was assembling held promise. Unfortunately, she had been so desperate for change she hadn’t listened to the details. Different work, new colleagues, new environment, that’s all that had mattered. Now she considered her options. Iced-in all weekend away from home. A welcome reprieve.
She opened the desk drawer again and looked at her husband’s smiling face. The photograph was only six months old. It was taken the day she won a first at the shooting match in Bienne. He had looked so happy. Not just his usual geniality but genuinely happy. Exuberant.
She slammed the drawer. Nonessential. That’s what she was.