Was it possible he’d just been polite, he couldn’t do otherwise for fear of upsetting her, and she, carried away by desire, had been imagining something that existed only in her head? Inès felt completely lost. Angry and upset. She missed him. She had a vague but constant burning in her chest, as if her lungs were on fire. She didn’t know what to think. She wanted to flood him with messages on Facebook and email, but she didn’t let herself, knowing it would only trigger the opposite reaction to the one she was hoping for.
“Where are you, Milo?” she whispered, as she scrolled down her Facebook page trying to find him.
Everything was falling apart. Fate was against her. Even her father wasn’t answering her calls. Absolutely no sign of life. He was playing dead. The same question was going around and around in her head, the same word repeating itself indefatigably, like a nagging echo rattling around in her skull:why?
What had happened? Was each of the men behaving by choice, or under pressure? She wanted to pour out her heart to one of them...Milo...She wanted to snuggle up to him, lie in his arms, knowing that he would never hurt her, that she could always depend on him.
But no. It was impossible. He wasn’t there, when she so desperately needed him. Filled with apprehension, more questions began to waltz around her head, ringing out like a cackle:Are you sure you didn’t imagine it all? The way you get along? You’ve hung out with him twice! Your closeness? A few giggles about some dumb memes that everyone’s talking about at the moment. That kiss? You were the one who made the first move!None of it was proof he felt anything for her.Open your eyes, you stupid girl. This guy doesn’t give a damn about you. You bore him.
She had seen that glimmer of annoyance, that tiny twinge of irritation on his face when, on two occasions, she had rung at the door. She hadn’t been welcome either time. The first time he had managed to get rid of her. The second, he hadn’t had time to come up with an excuse, and she’d marched in like she owned the place.Get down off your high horse, you idiot! Not every guy is going to throw himself at your feet. And this is the proof!
Inès’s eyes welled up, and two heaving sobs caught in her throat, pressing against each other, trying to break through the dam of pride to escape. She began to cry, desperate to pour out the overwhelming desolation that was consuming her from within. For several long minutes, she wept with sorrow.
Chapter 44
The two police officers who showed up on the Geniots’ doorstep were dead ringers for Laurel and Hardy. One was portly, with a superficially open and friendly expression that belied the dangerous gleam in his dark eyes. His colleague was tall and thin, with gentle features that contrasted with a bearing that was clearly meant to be intimidating.
Sylvain opened the door and frowned, despite their comical resemblance to Laurel and Hardy, when he saw their uniforms. His throat tightened with apprehension. What now?
“Monsieur Geniot?” Laurel asked.
He paused before nodding his head in assent: at that moment, he would have given anything not to be Monsieur Geniot.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about this person,” Hardy went on, thrusting a photo of Nora’s husband under his nose. “Gérard Depardieu. Do you know him?”
Sylvain’s heart seemed to stop beating. As he looked at the picture, he tried to figure out why they were there; he had no idea how to respond or what attitude to adopt.
“I know him by sight,” he said, cautiously. “He’s my neighbor’s estranged husband.”
“Indeed he is,” Laurel confirmed. “Might we come in for a few minutes?”
Reluctantly, Sylvain stepped aside to let the two officers into the house, and gestured them toward the living room. Then he went into the kitchen, where Tiphaine and Milo were finishing their lunch.
“Could you come here for a moment, Tiphaine?”
She gave him a questioning look, which he answered with an imperious glance. She put her sandwich on her plate and stood up. Her face was drawn, betraying the sleepless night she had just spent. When she saw the two men in the living room, she frowned and turned to Sylvain for an explanation.
“They want to ask us some questions about Nora’s husband,” he said, looking for a reaction from Tiphaine. She looked genuinely surprised.
“Nora’s husband?”
“Monsieur Gérard Depardieu,” Laurel clarified.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, slightly too aggressively for Sylvain’s taste.
It was Hardy who spoke this time. “Did he come to see you yesterday afternoon?”
Tiphaine and Sylvain glanced at each other.
“Yes,” Sylvain said before Tiphaine could respond.
“Why do you want to know?” asked Tiphaine.
“What time did he leave?” said Hardy, ignoring Tiphaine’s question.
“About six thirty, six forty-five maybe,” replied Sylvain, a little disconcerted by his wife’s reaction.
“What was the reason for his visit?” said Laurel.
