She burst out laughing. She sounded almost joyful.
“I don’t give a damn who you sleep with, Sylvain. I really don’t. How banal, to be screwing your neighbor. It’s almost funny. The problem is you picked the wife of a man who could land us in deep, deep shit. Bury us in it. Destroy our lives. And that, Sylvain, isn’t funny at all.”
Sylvain couldn’t hide his astonishment. It wasn’t as if he’d been expecting her to fall to pieces, brokenhearted, but he felt a little wounded by this level of cynicism. Was there really nothing between them anymore? Not the tiniest crumb of attachment, the vaguest trace of affection?
“Stop looking like that, Sylvain,” she said. “You weren’t expecting me to collapse in tears and call you a bastard, were you?”
“Of course not,” he said again. Now he knew there really was nothing left between them but the stain of misfortune, the stigma of suffering. Hostility born of solitude. Grief had turned out to be stronger than love. They had become toxic to each other. They reminded each other of everything they had lost.
When Maxime had died everything else had died with him, even the most infinitesimal recollections of joy.
“You can carry on screwing her, I don’t care,” Tiphaine said mockingly, as if she could read his thoughts. “But you’d better make sure she doesn’t do us any harm.” She looked at him. “Because if you don’t, I will.”
Sylvain raised his eyebrows and said nothing. Her words needed no elucidation.
He was utterly overwhelmed by the turn events had taken. How had they gotten to this point in less than a week? Seven days before, they’d been trundling along quite happily. No fear or sorrow. No emotions or surprises. No dreams either.
“No, Tiphaine,” he said, his voice flat. “Not again.”
In the heat of the moment, she failed to hide her surprise.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, sounding like a queen dressing down an insolent subject.
“You heard me,” he said, his voice firm. “No more of that crazy stuff.”
“I don’t think you are in any position to discuss—”
“I’m in a position to do whatever I like, Tiphaine. And I am not going to do that.”
“I’ve never needed you for anything,” she sneered.
“I’m not going to be anyone’s accomplice either,” he said firmly.
Tiphaine looked at him, trying to assess his resolve.
And this time she understood that even the ghastly liability they shared wouldn’t keep Sylvain from standing in her way.
As if to confirm her fears, he stepped a little closer to her and looked her in the eye, his face grim.
“Tiphaine, if anything happens to that attorney, I swear to God I will turn you in.”
They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They sprang apart to opposite sides of the kitchen, like two lovers surprised. Milo poked his head in and looked from one to the other without a word. Tiphaine turned to him and flashed him the fakest of B-movie smiles.
“Are you looking for something, mon chéri?”
Milo smiled distractedly. He hated it when she called him that.
“I have to go out for a bit, I won’t be long.”
Normally, Tiphaine would have asked him where he was going, who he was seeing, how long he’d be gone.
“Sure. Don’t be late for dinner.”
Milo mimed a look of thoughtful reflection, one eyebrow raised in mock surprise, then turned and left. He was still clutching the attorney’s business card.
He walked out of the house and went to call at the house next door.
Chapter 38
