The inn had easy access to the roadway, with a market, shops, and a church, typical of small, rural villages.
He glanced over at her. She hadn't said a word, and after first leaving the city, he thought she had dozed off. Then he saw her eyes, fixed on the roadway as they drove north, her expression pale, emotionless.
He knew only too well that it was an illusion. She was in shock, then the numbness when that first shock wore off. Another glimpse. She had been holding herself in, holding on, arms wrapped around herself.
“Where are we?” she asked, barely a whisper.
“Just outside of Amiens.” He pulled into the car park. “We need a place to stay for the night.”
Until he could convince her that they needed to go to the authorities. She stayed in the car while he went inside.
Kris’s hand shook as she pushed back her hair. She hurt everywhere. She was covered in dust from the explosion, and there was a tear in the knee of her jeans. At least she was fashionable, she thought, in that absurd way after something happened and nothing made sense.
“Number twenty-four, over the street,” James said when he returned.
He locked the rental car, a hand on her arm as they went inside.
The inn was in the typical style of old houses in Normandy, with heavy beams and white-washed walls, shown in travel brochures.
A warm fire blazed in the main room. It was empty except for an older couple who sat in front of the rock fireplace with glasses of wine.
Their room was decorated in a French country theme, the comforter on the bed in a floral pattern and trimmed in blue and white stripes. The area rug was dark blue and gold, with a mahogany wardrobe, table, and two side chairs.
A plastic display stand with brochures on the table advertised local tours of World War II battlefield cemeteries and war memorials in both French and English, with black-and-white photographs on the front that looked as if they might have been taken just after the war.
“Step back in time and visit these hallowed sites where brave men died,” was printed across the top of the brochure above a black-and-white photograph of soldiers that reminded her of Paul Bennett's photographs, their expressions exhausted with that same expression she'd seen in other photographs, of too many places seen, too many deaths. How many, she wondered, never made it home.
“I'll find us something to eat,” James said as he made a quick check of the room and the adjoining bathroom.
“It's better if you stay here. It's not a good idea to be out and about. Kris?”
She turned and looked at him, pale, eyes dark. He'd seen that same expression too many times in other places.
“A hot shower will help.”
She still said nothing.
“I won't be gone long. Bolt the door after I leave, and don't open it for anyone.”
He waited in the hallway outside the room, then finally heard the bolt slide into place.
Kris sat on the edge of the bed, the past hours pushing their way through the shock and exhaustion, playing back in that cruel way when the brain refused to shut down.
She closed her eyes, but the images followed her there, like photos someone sent on her cell phone—the Montparnasse with its Bohemian blend of shops and restaurants, the apartment building at the end of the street, the smell of rain that morning, sounds on the street, a young woman, and her child, then that other sound, someone shouting her name...
The tears came then, streaming down her cheeks.
No sound came from inside the room. He inserted the key and slowly pushed the door open.
She sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around her as if she was physically trying to hold herself together.
He locked the dead bolt and set the chain. She didn't look up, didn't move, didn't give the slightest indication that she knew he was there.
This was different than the attack in London. She'd been scared, there had been that first shock, but she'd fought her way through it. This time, it was as if she'd shut down, barely holding on, holding herself in.
“Kris?”
There were all kinds of pain. He knew that well enough—the pain of physical wounds that eventually healed, and the other, deeper wounds that never healed, never went away—the pain of losing someone, and the worst pain, the loss that came afterward that you were alive and they were gone, a loneliness of pain and regret, and guilt that was always there just beneath the surface, waiting for that moment in the middle of the night.
