“Well?” Dad said. I pointed at my throat and tried to shake my head, but the motion made me feel like my skin was tearing apart. Madame Dupuy realized what the problem was, reminded Dad I couldn’t talk, and left the room to find some paper and a pen. Dad took hold of my hand, and I looked up to see tears slipping down his face. “When the police called…” He squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. I remembered the final, dizzy, stomach-dropping feeling of knowing I’d never see him again, and I was so full of gratitude and guilt that I started to cry, too. When Madame Dupuy returned with a pen and a block of sticky notes with “Cordarone” printed across the top in an imposing red font, Dad asked me again why I’d been out by myself. “That could have waited till I gothome,” he said when I wrote that it was a tampon emergency. I underlined “emergency” and wrote,Store would have been closed then. It was still light out.He shook his head.There were lots of people, I added.
“You should have waited,” he lectured. “Or planned better.” I wanted to cry. My period isn’t always predictable. And sometimes I forget to buy tampons, just like everybody in the world forgets things. A tampon run shouldn’t almost cost me my life.
The police officer Madame Dupuy had called poked her head through the door, and Dad waved her in. It took ages before she was finally done asking questions, ages that turned into centuries because I had to write all my answers out in French. She complimented my grammar, though, so yay summer school and Madame Dupuy. She didn’t react when I told her I knew my attacker, but she asked me a lot of questions about where he hung out and who his friends were. When she was done, she assured me they’d find him, which was comforting. She gave me her card and left to chase down Le Bec, I hoped. I slumped back onto my thin pillow and closed my eyes. I was so tired.
“I’m sorry I have to say this, but I can’t let you see any of those kids anymore,” Dad said.
I reached for the sticky-note pad.Why?I scribbled.
“Because they’re friends with the guy who attacked you.”
They didn’t know he was the one doing the attacks.And Nick had apologized for hanging out with Le Bec.
“Are you sure about that?”
What a horrible thing to say.He attacked Noor. If they werepart of it, he wouldn’t have done that. Also, they wouldn’t do that to me. They’re good people.
“You’ve only known them a few weeks. How can you be sure what they’d do? And the guy who attacked you apparently was one of your friends, too.”
No. He was someone they all knew, but they weren’t tight with him. He kind of kept himself aloof.
“At best they sound careless, Tosh. At worst, they’re friends with a monster who almost killed you. When you get home, you’re going to have to tell them you can’t see them anymore. And you won’t be leaving the apartment until this guy is caught. Do you understand that? Do you understand that no woman is safe right now? Tosh, I trusted you to be smart, and instead you just waltzed out like the world was full of kittens and rainbows because you couldn’t wait overnight to buy tampons.”
I started to cry. He was talking to me like I was five. I didn’t waltz carelessly out; I had a plan. I was vigilant. And a tampon emergency is a real emergency, not just some minor inconvenience. I wrote that on a sticky note and handed it to him. He just shook his head and put it into the wastebasket.
I went home the following afternoon with a huge dressing on my neck and pain like shaking a tumbler of broken glass whenever I swallowed. I had to drink my meals, and I couldn’t talk, but the doctor said it could have been so much worse. Meaning Le Bec could have taken my life instead of just my voice. I crawled into bed full of hurt and grateful to be alive and fell asleep. I woke that evening when Madame Dupuy knocked on my door with a homeopathic infusion tohelp my throat heal and a small whiteboard and marker so I could “talk.” Swallowing was torture, so the tea was cold when I finally drank the last of it. She stayed with me till I finished, then took the cup, felt my forehead, and asked me if I was hungry. I shook my head. She stood there a moment, smiled sadly, and said, “I am sorry about your friends. I believe you.” Then she left. I heard her wishing Dad a good evening, and then I heard the front door close.
Dad poked his head in my room. “How you doing?”
I made the seesaw hand motion that meantCould be worse; could be better. He nodded. “It’s time to tell your friends you can’t see them anymore.” He stayed in the doorway, leaning on the jamb, until I’d sent the text and held up my phone to show him.
Me:Le Bec attacked me Friday night. It was bad—I just got home from the hospital. He really messed up my neck, and I can’t talk. Dad’s so angry. He says I can’t see any of you anymore because you introduced me to Le Bec. I’m so, so sorry. I’m not mad at you
Then I turned my phone off so I didn’t have to hear all their “WTAF” pings.
Chapter 15
Eight Weeks Ago
Late the next morning, Madame Dupuy poked her head into my darkened room and told me it was time to get up. She raised the blinds and opened the windows. I rolled away from the bright sunshine, covering my eyes. The warm breeze felt nice, though, and I could hear the shouts of kids playing outside, a chain of warmth and sound that anchored me. Madame Dupuy reached down and felt my forehead and cheeks with the back of her hand, then smiled at me. “Still no fever,” she said. “That is a good sign.” She left and returned in a few minutes with a melon smoothie. Perfect pearls of condensation beaded the glass, and a tiny sprig of mint made a beautiful green X on the pale orange drink. I wondered if she Instagrammed everything she cooked for us. Maybe in her secret life she was a food influencer, posting photos of gorgeous dishes to make her millions of followers drool. I was definitely drooling—I was so hungry, and the smoothielooked delicious. I took a sip, anticipating the fragrance of ripe melon and the floral sweetness of honey. It tasted every bit as fabulous as a glass of pulped cardboard. And it sent knives of pain down my throat. I grimaced and set the glass on my nightstand.
She shook her head. “That is not enough. Drink some more.”
I reached for my whiteboard and wrote that it hurt to swallow.
“I am sorry; you must drink it so you can recover.”
I shrugged and wrote that I couldn’t taste anything, either. She gave me a look, so I had another sip, wincing as it went down.
“I am sorry about Monsieur Nick and your other friends.”
None of this is their fault.
She nodded. “I know.”
It made me feel a little less lonely to know that she understood. I drank some more smoothie, sad that I couldn’t taste anything and that it hurt this much to do something so basic and necessary as eat. When I’d finished, she changed my dressing, working carefully to loosen the tape, trying not to put pressure on my neck. Even her light touch, though, sent spikes of pain all the way to my toes. She tried to distract me by telling me about her trip to the market that morning, what she’d bought, how many tourists she’d seen blocking shoppers as they photographed themselves in front of the vendors’ stands. Then she gasped.
“Where is the necklace I gave you?”
