I walked to a nearby café and ordered more tea. The remaining German phone was in my pocket. It was time, I reckoned. I had not checked the news for three days. I prepared myself to read about the manhunt that must now be under way for me. The press must be hounding my family in Washington; my heart ached at the scandal and shame I had brought on the Cashion name.
On the Journal-Constitution mobile site the murder had ascended to the lead story. Ethan Sinclare was now identified by name. His family was described as shocked and grief-stricken. The Atlanta Bar Association was planning a tribute dinner. There was a more detailed account of the wounds that had killed him, two bullet shots to the stomach, fired from close range. Police were still seeking to question a person in connection with the incident. Anyone with relevant information was urged to make an anonymous call to the Crime Stoppers Atlanta tip line, or to text the tip to C-R-I-M-E-S.
There was no mention of my name. Nothing hinting at a motive for the killing. I did not understand it. I sat until my tea went cold, then removed the chip from the phone and crushed it beneath the heel of my boot.
The Marché Dejean had finished for the day, but at the top of the stairs leading back down into the metro, a lone vendor remained. He had a dirty, green sheet spread across the sidewalk, loaded with car air-fresheners, lighters, knockoff designer sunglasses, and a handful of preloaded cell phones.
“Combien?” I asked, gesturing at the phones. How much?
He shrugged. “Trente-cinq.” Thirty-five.
I scoffed and turned to go. But his necklace caught my eye. Rather, not a necklace but a small, leather pouch, hanging from a suede strap.
“Et pour ?a?”
“?a? Non. C’est la dent de mon fils.” That’s my son’s baby tooth.
Not the tooth, silly. Just the pouch.
He looked dubious.
“Cinquante.” I held out a fifty-euro note. “For both.”
He shook a small, brown tooth from the pouch into his fingers. Unknotted the suede strap and handed it, along with a phone, over to me.
“Code for the SIM card is taped to the back,” he mumbled.
Once I’d settled into the plastic bucket seat of the train, I unwrapped the bullet from its tissue-paper sheath inside my purse. Dropped it into the pouch and tied the strap tight around my neck. The leather was still warm from his skin.
? ? ?
THAT NIGHT I became aware of a man watching me.
Back in Hélène’s apartment I had found myself restless. The evening was unseasonably warm. The neighborhood cafés would be packed. My cans of tomato soup were unappealing. I paced the parquet floors, weighing the risks, knowing I should stay inside with the curtains drawn and my nose in a book. But I seemed unable to channel my old risk-averse, introverted self. She bored me. Just after dark I exited the building by a back service door, slipping into the soft air and walking east, crossing the Seine, hugging back streets and then the banks of the river itself.
There is an Italian wine bar near the Odéon that stays open late. On a night like tonight it would be busy, knots of people sipping Sangiovese on the sidewalk, waiting for seats at the bar or at one of the red Formica tables. I scanned the wine list and ordered the house Vermentino, a dry white from the hills between Liguria and Tuscany. Then I plunked down on the curb to wait. The crowd was mostly young, mostly locals in expensive denim and leather jackets, lighting each other’s cigarettes and chattering in French. I was wearing my sensible boots with black leggings. No makeup, no jewelry, no ornamentation of any kind. My newly blond, cropped hair lay flat against my head. I felt invisible.
From inside the restaurant, though, a man kept glancing at me. He was at a table for two in the window, speaking to another man whose back was to me. I could not see his features clearly in the candlelight, just the flash of his dark eyes. They did not look away when I stared back. Suddenly he was making his way to the bar, speaking to the bartender, pointing outside toward me. My blood froze. I scrambled to my feet, ready to run.
But when he appeared at the door he was holding two glasses. “Je me suis demandé si vous aimeriez un autre.” I thought you might like a refill. He nodded in the direction of the bar. “He said you liked the Vermentino.”
I stepped back. Scanned our surroundings for signs of a trap. A squad of armed Interpol agents might be lurking behind him, preparing to storm us from the restaurant kitchen. He took in my tense posture with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not going to run away, are you? Je ne mords pas.” I don’t bite.
I could have been mistaken, but his black eyes were not watching me like those of a cop closing in on his quarry. They were watching me the way a man watches a woman he wants, outside a bar on a velvety night in Paris, when the evening is still young enough that anything could happen.
I took the wine.
“Comment vous appelez-vous?” What’s your name?
“Simone.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud. “Je m’appelle Simone Guerin. Et vous?” And you?
“Fran?ois.” He smiled and produced a pack of cigarettes, shook out one for each of us. I opened my mouth to tell him I don’t smoke, then reconsidered. Caroline didn’t smoke, never had. Simone, on the other hand, was still making up her mind about such things.
“Alors, Simone. Parlez-moi de vous.” Tell me about yourself.