Chapter 31 Thérèse
Thérèse
Now
Something terribly wrong happened in Paris.
That’s the only logical explanation. Cassie’s story didn’t make sense, and I think she knew that.
I saw the way she wrung her hands as she talked, how she jumped every time the tree rustled in the wind outside the window.
I could have asked questions. There were so many holes in her twisted tale.
But if I did, I wouldn’t be closer to the truth.
There’s only one person I trust, and he’s not here. Where is he?
All night long, I stare at my phone, placing bets with the devil.
Would it really be so bad if I called him?
I could do it from the landline or from Cassie’s phone.
That way it couldn’t be traced back to me.
But what if I screw up everything again?
Olivier was clear about that. We can’t take any risks.
If I had listened to him in the first place, it would all be over by now. We’d be together. I’d be free.
Hours keep on ticking by, and still no Olivier. No sign of life.
But maybe that’s part of the plan. Maybe Olivier has it all figured out, and I just need to wait.
By early morning I’m like a lion in a cage, bouncing against the bars with too much energy to spare.
I need to do something. I’ve spent way too much of my life feeling like other people were in charge, like I had to go along with whatever they wanted to put me through.
For now there’s only one thing to do: I must get out of the house, away from Cassie.
I end up at the grocery store, mindlessly wandering the aisles as the wheels of my empty cart stick to the dirty tiles.
If this were a normal day, I’d be planning what to make for dinner.
That’s what Cassie would expect, especially after coming back from her big trip.
Just because she’s acting like a lunatic doesn’t mean I can afford to do the same.
Today, I’m a doting sister welcoming her beloved sibling home. This is still my life. For now.
“Ma’am.”
I look up to see a tall man in a uniform frowning at me.
“You’re blocking the way,” he adds, pointing up and down the aisle. He’s right. I’m standing in the middle, making it impossible for the mom behind me to push past with her stroller. “Ma’am? You shouldn’t be standing here.”
That’s true; I should be in Paris with Olivier. I didn’t get a chance to talk to him about this, but I want to go back there on our honeymoon.
“I’m sorry,” I say, finally stepping to the side.
“Your little one is so cute,” I add, turning back to the mother, without even looking inside the stroller.
It’s what Good Taylor would have done—defuse any possible tension with a compliment.
She’s still in there somewhere. I can’t wait for her to die a quick and painless death.
Mac and cheese. That’s what I’ll make tonight.
Some good old American comfort food to help Cassie deal with the breakup.
Does she seriously think I believed her?
That anyone would? She always underestimated Good Taylor.
And I’ve waited long enough for the day it would come back to bite her in the ass.
I get home loaded up with two bags of food, even though I hardly remember buying anything. Cassie’s money—the stash I took before going to Paris—is dwindling fast. Based on the life she was living over there, I’m not sure hers is going to last very long.
I hear Cassie before I see her. She’s in the living room, talking to someone.
“I’m sorry,” she says. I stand in the foyer, so still and quiet I almost forget to breathe. “I was being dramatic. It all went so fast. I–I shouldn’t have said that to you. Can we please pretend it didn’t happen?”
Oh god. Olivier is here. He’s fine. He’s alive! Only now do I let myself accept how scared I was for him. Every muscle in my body loosens up at once. I’m like jelly. I can’t even feel my legs anymore, but I don’t care. He’s safe. Everything will be okay.
My first instinct is to walk in there. I have to see him, but I’m afraid of what will happen when I do.
Cassie will read the look on my face, the love and the pure joy.
These last few weeks, it’s been hard to fathom why she couldn’t see what was happening right in front of her.
But every day Olivier and I got away with it, we became a little more reckless.
Soon it almost felt like a game. If Cassie couldn’t see I was sleeping with her boyfriend—I didn’t know they were married then—that only made me want to move closer toward the fire, afraid of getting burned, but pulled in by the flames nonetheless.
“Please,” Cassie says now. “Can we forget everything?”
I grip tight onto the shopping bags, the blood draining from my fingers. My temples pulse against my skull. Soon this will all be over. Olivier and I will be together. I’ll do whatever it takes. Or else I’ll lose my mind.
But then another voice filters through the doorway. “This doesn’t make sense, Cassie. You told me your husband was out to murder you.”
It’s not Olivier.
Cassie knows.
Cassie knows and Olivier didn’t come back.
I manage to stop the scream that wants to come out just in time.
Instead it feels like I’m choking, like there is no air around me.
Breathless, I turn around, which is when I see Cassie’s phone on the console.
Moving one shopping bag to my right hand and wincing at the weight, I grab it.
Then, I slowly open the door, clenching my jaw as if that will mitigate the noise.
Outside, I shove the groceries back into the trunk of my car, holding on to the hood so it doesn’t slam shut. I can’t be too careful.
After that, I’m walking down the street, my pace quickening with every passing second. I need to talk to Olivier. Now. Cassie has her own birthday as her password, which she clearly hasn’t changed since we were teens.
I flick through her contacts until I find Olivier’s number, and press Call. Pick up pick up pick up. The ringtone goes on endlessly, or at least that’s how it feels, until his voicemail message begins.
Hi, you’ve reached Olivier Laurent. I’m sorry I’m unavailable right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Paul, our elderly neighbor three houses down, waves at me from his lawn as Olivier’s voice fills my ear. The old man’s two German shepherds bark, drowning the sound of my beloved promising he’ll get back to me.
I wave back, my smile tight, and hang up. Another try, same result. Please, Olivier. I’m sorry I stormed off that day you told me you were married. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring myself to believe you, but I do now. Give me another chance. I need you back. Please.
Any moment now, Cassie is going to notice her missing phone.
I should stop. Give up. I can’t stop. At first, I don’t plan to say anything.
I just want to hear his voice—soft and sweet, not to mention his melodic accent—one more time.
When the beep resonates after his voicemail message, I can’t help but stay on the line.
“Olivier, it’s me. I miss you. Please, I want to know if you’re okay. Give me a sign. Anything. I love you. I always will. I’m sorry about what happened, all of it. Forget everything else, I just want to be with you.”
My voice sounds shaky, but he’ll know who it is. He’ll find his way back to me. Does anyone know you’re in Paris? I lied to my love. And now I’m doing the one thing he told me not to. If I’ve blown this again, I won’t be able to live with myself.
I turn around, rushing back toward the house as quickly as I left it. I’ve only been gone a few minutes, but the car that was parked on the other side of the street earlier is no longer there. It must have been Darren’s.
Before going in, I wipe her phone against my thighs, though my palms are so sweaty that it won’t make a difference anyway.
But Cassie is not looking for her phone.
In fact, I find her sitting on the couch.
She’s looking down at her lap. Tears drop onto her new satin robe, leaving a watermark on the shiny pink fabric.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says, looking up and rubbing her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
I put the phone back on the console on the way in, but I’m still holding the memory of Olivier’s voice.
“I’m fine,” she says, getting up and noticing the grocery bags in my hands.
She heads to the kitchen. I follow her.
“I need to eat something,” she says, rummaging around the cupboards.
For once she doesn’t ask what cereals we have left, if I can grab her the milk from the fridge, and how about I start a fresh pot of coffee because I know how to make it better. Today, she makes her own breakfast and sits down at the round Formica table while I put the groceries away.
When she speaks again, she sounds lighter. Almost chipper. “I should have let you come with me to my father’s funeral. I wasn’t in my right mind then. That whole thing with Olivier—I should never have married him.”
I turn around, clutching the carton of eggs. “Then why did you?”
She scoffs. “You always think people are so black-and-white. Good or bad. We all know which one you are. Don’t tell me you didn’t love it, being the perfect daughter.”
“It wasn’t hard, being better than you.”
Her phone chimes from the entrance and we both jump a little.
She tries to rest her spoon on the side of the bowl, but it clatters on the table, splattering milk-soaked cereal around her.
Ignoring the mess she made, she starts to get up but then changes her mind and sits back down, shaking her head.
“Anyway, it’s you and me again now,” Cassie says. “And we have to be there for each other.”
A desire burns inside of me as I look down at the eggs in my hand.
I want to throw every single one at her and watch their shells smash against her pretty little skull.
We have never been there for each other.
I have been there for her time and time again.
Cassie would break Rae’s favorite vase and immediately point the finger at me.
She’d steal a twenty from her mother’s wallet and swear she saw me take it.
I never said anything because I couldn’t.
“Cassie”—my voice is so small, so shattered, that I’m not even sure I’m speaking out loud—“are you going to tell me what happened in Paris?”
She picks up her spoon again, wiping the table with the sleeve of her robe. “Don’t try to make it more complicated than it needs to be, Taylor. Everything will be fine. We’re good. We’re sisters, right?”
But here’s what Cassie doesn’t understand: I’m done being good. “Aren’t you selling the house and kicking me out onto the street?”
I turn back to the fridge, depriving myself of her reaction. Or maybe I don’t want her to see my flushed cheeks, my tight chest. I’ve so rarely stood up to her.
“I’m sorry I said that.” I freeze. This. Is. Not. Normal. “And I have more to tell you.”
I turn around slowly, staring at the groceries that have now spilled out of the bag, the jug of orange juice, a bunch of asparagus, and a jar of peanut butter rolling against the toe kick underneath the cupboard. I bend down to pick it up.
“Leave it!” Cassie says, louder.
I do what she orders and drag a chair back. It scrapes against the floor, making us both wince. “What is it, Cassie?”
She puts on a smile and looks me deep in the eyes. “I still want to renovate the inn. You know, the way Olivier planned.”
“You mean the way I suggested and you told me at the time it was a dumb idea?”
She exhales loudly. “Yes, fine. You were right. That’s what you want to hear?
You. Were. Right. But just because he decided to stay in Paris doesn’t mean we can’t do it ourselves.
He got the paint cans already, and did you know he ordered tile samples for the bathrooms before we left?
They should arrive soon. We could choose together. ”
“You can’t be serious.” This is the last thing I thought we’d be discussing right now.
“Of course I am. And there’s something else. My dad left me some”— the doorbell rings, interrupting her. Cassie’s eyes bulge out—“Are you waiting for someone?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
She swallows hard.
I start to get up, but she puts her hand on my forearm. “Maybe we’re not home,” she says quietly. Pleadingly.
I get up anyway. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
“We’re not always home!” she scream-whispers.
My spine tingles as I head out of the kitchen. “Our cars are out front. We’re definitely home.”
“Taylor, no! Don’t!”
I quicken my pace toward the front door, Cassie on my heels.
Fearing she’ll try to stop me, I swing it open with a little too much force.
It slams against the stopper, which makes a popping sound.
Two people stand on the porch: a fortysomething Black woman, tall and slender, and a white guy with red hair and a beard.
Both are dressed in street clothes, but the woman is already pulling out a thin wallet, flicking it halfway open to reveal a gold insignia.
My heart crushes inside my chest. “Yes?”
“Ms. Quinn?”
I feel Cassie react behind me, but I’m faster. “Yes.”
“Ms. Cassie Quinn?”
The next few seconds go by in a flash, like I’m not really here. Somebody else is experiencing them.
I step aside.
Cassie nods slowly, not glancing at me.
The woman presents her badge. She’s a detective, she explains. They both are.
They ask to come inside, their faces solemn.
And then they utter the words I feared the most for the past day, the ones I sensed deep down were coming, the ones I prayed I’d never hear.
“Ms. Quinn, we’re so sorry to inform you that your husband, Mr. Olivier Laurent, was found dead in his hotel room in Paris.”
I don’t know what Cassie does or what she says. I’m unable to process anything. The only thing I hear is the scream, screeching and feral, that permeates the air around us like thick smoke. It’s been going on for a few seconds when I realize it’s coming out of me.
And still I can’t stop it. In that moment I already know I can keep screaming and screaming and screaming, the pain will never go away.