Anyway, he supposed the things she’d taken wouldn’t tell him much about how long she intended to stay away—for all he knew, the clothes in front of him might be those she was willing to abandon forever, things she’d bought on a whim, or loved once but no longer.
He tried her phone, but it went straight to voicemail and he hung up without leaving a message. She’d left him. He stood in the middle of the bedroom, uncertain what to do next. He called her again, and when the voicemail kicked in he said, “Adrienne, it’s me. Grasset tells me you’ve left. Call me. If you want to.” As he hung up, he regretted the final four words, knowing how she’d interpret them.
But there was nothing more he could do. He stood for a moment longer, then walked back into the study, knowing that the book needed to be written no matter what happened to his relationship.
He took the laptop from its case and opened it up, arranged his notebooks, and started to transcribe, all the while thinking his way through the Albigensian Crusade. He had enough material, but now it was a question of illuminating it for his readers in a style that was fresh and original and compelling.
He’d already decided it would need multiple viewpoints. There would be Pope Innocent III, struggling to keep his Church intact in the face of Cathar heretics. The Abbot of C?teaux, of course—the leader of the crusade. Perhaps he would imagine the perspective of a regular soldier in that army, too. And then, as a counterpoint, one of the townspeople of Béziers itself, believing that the good intentions of twenty thousand people could save the lives of two hundred, a misjudgment like no other in history.
But Arnaud Amaury, the Abbot of C?teaux, a Cistercian monk with a military vision, he had to be the key . . .
There was a knock on the door. He ignored it, but struggled to reconnect with his thoughts, his concentration already brittle. The knock came again, and he went to the door and opened it.
It was Adrienne’s friend from the floor below, the preppy Debbie Portman, who looked like she might be a lawyer or a junior congresswoman, but who actually did nothing. Adrienne occasionally wrote features for a French art magazine but essentially lived off family money, so the two of them were natural companions.
Finn didn’t even know what Ethan Portman did except that it was something in finance. They were American and had a daughter, which was about the sum of his knowledge—they were Adrienne’s friends, and his only by default.
She smiled but it looked strained, and even though he picked up the signals in her expression, he said, “Debbie, good morning. I’m afraid Adrienne isn’t here.” He realized Grasset hadn’t told him when she’d left, though he presumed it had been recent. “I imagine she’s just gone away for a day or two.”
Debbie looked momentarily at a loss, as if she wanted to say one thing but felt obliged to respond to his opening comment. With the air of someone wanting to dismiss a subject quickly, she said, “Adrienne left nearly a week ago. Haven’t you spoken to her since then?”
“Where’s she gone?” She hesitated, not wanting to say. It galled Finn that he had to discuss this with someone else. “Debbie, I’m only asking where she’s gone.”
“To her brother’s.”
“In Paris?” That irritated him. He’d almost called Mathieu while he was in Paris, but had somehow failed to get around to it. “Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.”
He searched for something in her expression or body language that acknowledged the conversation was over, but she remained still, like someone held on pause. And now that he looked at her, he could see how drawn she looked, how lacking in sleep. For a sickening moment he wondered if Adrienne’s departure somehow involved Ethan Portman.
“Might I come in for a moment?”
“Is it something that can wait? You see, I’m working . . . right in the middle of something, in fact.”
He realized she must have seen him come in, and had to know he’d only been working for ten minutes or so, but she caught him out by saying, “On the Cathars. I know.” He’d always asked Adrienne not to discuss his works in progress with friends, but before he could say anything, Debbie caught him off guard a second time. “My daughter’s missing.”
“Er . . .” She looked on the verge of tears, as if her entire unshakable, preppy edifice was about to crumble. “I see. Please, come in, come and sit down,” he said, hoping movement would help her to pull herself together.
She walked through into the living room and sat down on the edge of one of the sofas. Now that she was inside, she looked eager to leave, perhaps wanting to be back in her own apartment in case there was news.
“Can I get you a drink or something?” She shook her head, looking into the middle distance. “Okay . . . er . . . so you say Hailey’s missing?”
“Three days, and the police aren’t helping, and I know something’s happened to her, I know it. That’s why I’m here, Finn. I just need someone who can do more than—”