“We both know the implication has always been very clear. That’s why you kept my pictures of Cressida. So I wouldn’t leave you.”
“But you were planning to leave me anyway, weren’t you?” Angela says, sounding hurt and resigned.
“So you gave Kersti those photographs to punish me?”
When Angela doesn’t respond, Hamidou turns to Kersti. “After she pushed Cressida, she came to me and confessed everything. I made her write a suicide note and I helped her cover it up.”
“Didn’t you think someone would figure out it wasn’t Cressida’s handwriting?” Kersti asks.
“But no one did,” Hamidou responds. “As I knew they wouldn’t.”
“How?”
“Because I knew there would be no investigation,” she explains. “Because I knew Bueche. It was quickly and quietly swept under the rug, as I knew it would be. As it always was.”
“You helped her get away with trying to kill Cressida?” Kersti whispers, heartbroken. “I thought you loved her—”
“I did,” Hamidou says, sounding remorseful for the first time all night. “But Angela had my pictures and my letters. She kept them locked someplace all these years so that if I ever decided to turn her in or leave her, she had leverage.”
“Cressida didn’t die,” Angela points out, sounding disappointed.
“She may as well have,” Hamidou says, looking very old and defeated. “You think pushing her off a balcony could stop me from loving her? All it did was bind you and me together like hostages. That’s all we are now, Angela.”
Kersti’s phone starts vibrating in her purse. She ignores it but Angela and Hamidou suddenly look over at her with worried expressions. It occurs to Kersti that something has to be done now. One of them has confessed to attempted murder, the other to covering it up and to sexually abusing God knows how many girls.
They’re both watching her, probably trying to decide what to do. If only Angela would get the hell away from the door and sit down on the couch. Kersti’s phone starts up again, vibrating with calls and texts. She reaches for it and reads Jay’s last text.
WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?
She manages to type 14 Béthusy before Angela comes over and takes the phone right out of her hand. Kersti’s not even sure the message was sent. She looks over at Hamidou, searching for that long-ago ally, but she’s gone.
I’m in danger, Kersti thinks. The realization is like a punch in the throat. When she decided to stop by here tonight she didn’t consider for a second that Hamidou—now in her late seventies—would pose any kind of threat to her safety. She hadn’t counted on Angela Zumpt.
“My husband is on his way,” Kersti mumbles, hardly able to breathe.
“What are you going to do, Kersti?” Hamidou asks her.
“I don’t really have any options,” Kersti says in a small voice. “Neither do you—”
“Claudine?” Angela says. “Was nun?”
“Ich wei? es nicht,” Hamidou says.
Kersti doesn’t like them speaking German. It makes her extremely anxious. She stands up, scheming how to get past Angela and out of the apartment.
“Where are the photographs Angela gave you?” Hamidou asks her.
“At my hotel,” Kersti says, inching toward the door. “Everyone knows. I told Bueche, Deirdre, my husband—”
“Why did you come here then?” Hamidou wants to know. “If you already have everything you need?”
“I wanted you to look me in the eyes and admit it,” Kersti says. “I wanted to hear you say that you’re sorry. And I wanted you to know that I know, we all know.”
“And that would give you what?” Hamidou says. “Peace of mind?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did it?”
Kersti looks away.
“Maybe you should have thought more about taking care of yourself and your baby,” Angela says. “Instead of coming here to avenge Cressida. But she was good at that, wasn’t she? Getting people to think about her and do things for her. Now look where it got you.”
Angela is staring at her. Kersti can feel the fear twisting and tightening in her chest. She looks over at Hamidou, counting on her to still have some common sense left. “You have to know it’s over,” she says softly.
Hamidou lights another cigarette. She turns and looks out the window, not saying anything. Angela doesn’t budge. Kersti swallows nervously, fighting back tears. She doesn’t want them to know how scared she is.
“Your husband hasn’t answered your text,” Angela says, looking at Kersti’s cell phone in her hand. “Perhaps he fell asleep?”
It’s possible, Kersti thinks with a sinking heart. He’s still jet-lagged. He thinks she’s out with the girls reminiscing about old times.
“We might have time,” Angela says to Hamidou. They start speaking German again. Kersti makes out the words Algeria, Paris. “Wir haben Zeit.”
Kersti considers they could feasibly get away.
“Claudine,” Angela says. “Tell me what to do.”
Hamidou’s eyes lock with Kersti’s. She stubs out her cigarette and disappears into her bedroom without a word. Angela takes a step toward Kersti and Kersti backs away. All she can think about is Jay and their babies. What has she done? He warned her. He told her to stop playing detective and leave it to Deirdre, but she wouldn’t listen. She kept bulldozing her way through the lives of everyone who ever knew Cressida. Bulldozing and bullying, doing whatever it took to get what she wanted. J??rap?ine. And for what? Justice for Cressida? Insatiable curiosity? A great story for her next book? Personal vindication?
Yes, Kersti thinks. It was for all those things. Somewhere along the way, she got hijacked by the adventure, by what she kept discovering about herself.
“Cressida only cared about Cressida,” Angela says, stepping closer to her. Sounding almost childlike.
Did Cressida know she was in danger right before Angela pushed her? Did it unfold the way this moment is unfolding for Kersti?
“Angela, you’re a victim in this,” she says, trying to talk her off the ledge. “You were only a child when it started. You were hurt and confused. Nothing would happen to you now. It’s she who should be locked up—”
“I am not a victim,” Angela says. “I love her. She’s my life.”
Angela is towering over her now. Her eyes are bottomless pools of dark blue, implacable. Kersti eyes the door, but Angela’s body is a wall.
Kersti’s phone starts vibrating in Angela’s hand. They both look down at it. Angela frowns. “Claudine?” she calls out.
An antique grandfather clock is ticking loudly in the corner of the room, measuring each agonizing minute, second, millisecond. After a seemingly eternal moment, Hamidou’s voice from the bedroom beckons Angela.
Angela doesn’t move. Kersti stays equally still, not daring to show a fissure of weakness. She wants to grab Angela by the neck and shake her. Does she still think something can be done? That she can be saved?
Of course she does, Kersti realizes with a violent stab of dread. She lives in her own world, always has. She has no grasp on reality.