Page 66

Soft footsteps sounded from the living room. Closet doors opening and closing. Luggage zippers scraping shut.

I pulled on the turtleneck sweater, yanked on my jeans. Halfway up, the zipper caught on fabric. I jerked hard. Metal teeth screeched.

I pushed open the bathroom door.

The master bedroom had been cleaned. Marcelo's suitcase stood by the door. The bed was still rumpled but stripped of warmth.

My old suitcase lay open on the carpet.

I walked over and mechanically stuffed in yesterday's dress, toiletries. Zipped it shut. Grabbed the handle.

Out to the living room.

Marcelo had changed into a tailored navy suit, tie knotted perfectly. He stood with his back to me at the floor-to-ceiling window, left hand holding an unlit cigar.

At the sound of wheels rolling over carpet, he turned.

His gaze lingered on my face for two seconds, then shifted away.

"Car's downstairs." He picked up his briefcase and headed for the entrance.

I followed three steps behind.

Paris morning hung gray and damp, fine rain tapping the hotel awning.

The doorman pulled open the black Bentley's door. Marcelo slid into the right side. I circled the trunk and got in on the left.

Door closed.

The cabin fell silent as a tomb. Only the windshield wipers scraping glass in monotonous rhythm.

I turned toward the window. Plane trees on the Champs-Élysées blurred past in the rain, smearing into gray-green streaks. Four hours ago I'd thought this street was a red carpet to a fairy tale.

Charles de Gaulle's VIP terminal stood cavernous and cold.

Security. Waiting. Boarding.

We kept six feet between us at all times. No eye contact. No conversation. He walked ahead, dress shoes striking marble in steady, monotonous beats. I dragged my suitcase behind.

Air France flight AF007 cruised smoothly at thirty thousand feet.

First class air-conditioning blasted cold.

I sat in 2A, seatbelt buckled to the tightest notch.

Marcelo sat in 2B beside me. He leaned back in the leather seat, an all-English merger document spread on his tray table. Right hand gripped a Montblanc fountain pen, tip occasionally slashing sharp lines across pages with a scratching sound.

Cedar and fig drifted over from beside me. That scent I'd once drowned in now turned to poison, twisting my gut.

I dug into my canvas bag and pulled out the oversized Bose noise-canceling headphones, clamping them over my ears.

Not connected to anything. No music playing.

I'd just pulled down the soundproofing.

I turned my head and stared unblinking at the clouds outside the window.

Thick white clouds stretched like an endless wasteland. My pale, exhausted face reflected in the glass.