“I hope so,” Deirdre says. “I’ll be in touch, dear.”
But Kersti knows she won’t be. And as she steps outside onto Beacon, she breaks down and cries. She’s not sure what’s worse—being thrown out by Deirdre, or seeing what’s become of Cressida. She’s not sure she’ll ever recover from either.
When she finally manages to collect herself, she pulls out her map of Boston and starts heading toward Charles Street, where Aleks is waiting for her at a coffee shop. She walks quickly, wanting to get as far away from what just happened as she can. All she can think is, Why did the sight of her make Cressida cry?
Chapter 37
LAUSANNE—June 2016
Kersti turns to see who it is. It takes her a moment to recognize the woman stepping inside the apartment and then her heart stops. It’s Angela Zumpt.
“Hello again, Kersti.”
“What are you doing here?” Kersti manages, frozen on the couch.
“I live here,” Angela responds, as though it should be the obvious assumption. “With my wife.”
Shocked, Kersti turns back to Hamidou. “You’ve known the whole time who sent me those Polaroids, didn’t you?”
“The same person who pushed Cressida,” Hamidou states. “The one I thought loved me most.”
Kersti looks back and forth between Angela and Hamidou.
“I told you every relationship I ever had was mutual,” Hamidou continues, her tone smug. “Angela is thirty-six. Surely you can’t think I’m abusing her?”
Angela is standing in the foyer, filling the entire space with her height and breadth, making no move to come any closer. Blocking any possibility of a smooth and hasty exit for Kersti.
“If that’s true,” Kersti says, “why did she give me pictures that prove you’re a child molester?”
Hamidou turns her dark, accusing eyes on Angela. “You must have known when you did this that we would both lose everything?”
“I’ve already lost you,” Angela says, her tone flat.
“How can you say that?”
“I’d rather us be locked up than have you move back to the Lycée to be with Amandine.”
Kersti rides out a wave of nausea, remembering the young girl from the other day.
“You did this to punish me?” Hamidou murmurs, incredulous.
“I did it to stop you from being with Amandine,” Angela says, sulking, sounding like a child. “When you told me Kersti was in Lausanne asking questions about Cressida, I just thought—”
“You thought you would ruin both our lives? Over a student? Do you know how many others there have been?”
Angela looks down at the floor. She’s still in the doorway, hasn’t budged since she arrived.
“Mon Dieu,” Hamidou rails. “You know what I have to do now, don’t you?”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care? Did you think any of this through? Do you even understand?”
“You love Amandine,” Angela says, her voice breaking. “You haven’t loved anyone like this since Cressida.”
They both fall silent at the mention of Cressida, staring at each other defiantly, neither of them so much as flinching. Kersti watches numbly, transfixed, finally piecing it all together. “Is that why you pushed Cressida?” she asks Angela. “Out of jealousy?”
Angela says nothing. Her expression is blank, her blue eyes strangely vacant, as though all hope has gone out of them.
“Angela and I have an unspoken arrangement,” Hamidou says, reaching for a cigarette.
Kersti holds her breath, bracing for the truth. Her heart is pounding so hard it feels like the room is shaking. She instinctively places her hands on her belly and looks over at Angela, fixated on her body barricading the door.
“Cressida never threatened me with the ledger,” Hamidou says. “Angela is the one she went to.”
Kersti stares at Angela. It makes sense now. Cressida went to each and every one of Hamidou’s victims—Lille, Alison, and Angela—and told them what she was going to do.
“She came to my room at study hall,” Angela recalls, sitting down on a green velvet armchair by the door. “She said she had something that would make us free. She said Claudine would never harm another girl again.”
She shakes her head, looking as bewildered and confused as she must have looked to Cressida back then. “I told her Claudine had never hurt me and that we were in love, but she laughed at me and handed me the Polaroid photograph of herself in Claudine’s bed. I asked her where she got it. She told me she took it from Claudine’s room and that she had others. Keep it, she said. There are plenty more where this came from.”
At the other end of the room, Hamidou lights a Gauloises off the one she’s already smoking and fills the air with more of that pungent smell.
“It made me very angry,” Angela says. “I went to Claudine’s room and I looked in her drawers and I found more pictures.” She looks over at Hamidou, her face and neck splotchy. “And their love notes, as well.”
“I loved all of you,” Hamidou interjects softly.
“Cressida told me she was going to speak to Bueche,” Angela resumes. “She was going to tell him about my relationship with Claudine. I asked her how she knew about us and she said she used to sit on the stairs and wait for me to come out of Claudine’s room.”
Kersti remembers the night they caught Angela creeping around on the second floor. Cressida must have known why Angela was there. It breaks her heart to imagine Cressida huddled on the stairwell in her nightgown, waiting to see who would tiptoe out of Hamidou’s room each night. Had she been jealous? Or merely gathering evidence?
“I warned her not to go to Bueche,” Angela says, her voice rising. “She knew it would destroy Claudine’s life, but she didn’t care.”
Kersti is very still, doesn’t dare speak. Angela is watching Kersti watch the door. She must be aware of Kersti’s discomfort because she gets up, folds her arms across her chest, and plants herself in front of the door again before continuing with her story.
“She went out that night and I waited for her in her room,” Angela says, never taking her eyes off Kersti. “She came back very drunk. After curfew, of course. Claudine never made Cressida follow the rules. Isn’t that right, Claudine?”
Hamidou doesn’t answer and Kersti realizes she’s witnessing the bitter end of their sick relationship.
“Cressida was drinking from a bottle of vodka. I asked her to give me the photographs but she said she buried them somewhere and I would never find them. She went outside on the balcony to smoke. I followed her.”
Kersti sinks into the couch, reeling.
“I was trying to protect you,” Angela tells Hamidou, tears springing to her eyes. “I love you, Claude. I’ve always loved you and I thought you loved me. Why else would we still be together?”
“Why? Because you’ve been holding me hostage for almost twenty years.”
“I have not—”