“It sure does.”
I got up.
“Don’t leave,” she pleaded.
“I don’t want to make you late for your flight.” And I don’t want you to notice the ugly guilt all over my face. “And screw your boss! He’s probably just jealous that you don’t even need to work.”
She made a funny face, like she couldn’t decide if this was meant to be supportive or a jab at her inherited wealth. Truth was, it was the latter disguised in the former.
File under: how to sound passive-aggressive without really trying.
I’d enjoyed seeing Laila these last few days, but I was tired of pretending that she hadn’t started ten paces ahead. She’d never understand what it was like to be me, to have no choice but to own up to your mistakes. To have no one to rely on, ever, to just keep working and hoping that you could pay your bills, that you might meet a decent man one day, that it won’t always feel so freaking hard. Or maybe I was just trying to justify my crime. Did Laila’s boss know about the missing jewelry? If so, how much trouble was she in?
For the first time since I’d gotten off the yacht, I also thought about Odetta Olson. Where was she now? What was she thinking? Feeling? Maybe she’d surrendered herself to the police already. Or maybe she thought she could get away with it. In this moment, anything was possible.
Laila and I hugged goodbye with promises to catch up the next time we were in the same city. I forced myself not to look at her suitcases as I closed the door behind me.
In the few steps it took to enter my room, I took exaggerated deep breaths. Maybe I should try to sleep, though the idea that I might actually get some rest was absurd.
And it wasn’t going to happen anyway.
There was a small envelope on the carpet. It must have been slipped under my door while I was with Laila.
The note inside was all of two lines.
Le Suquet Market
7 am
I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I had no idea whether it was safe to go.
But considering I’d just witnessed a violent murder—of a man I’d threatened just an hour before—it might be just as dangerous not to.
Marnie
At seven in the morning, fishmongers, grocers, florists, and cheesemakers were still setting up their stands at Le Suquet Market, a covered hallin the old part of Cannes. The space was bustling with scents, colors, and textures. Sea brine mixed with fragrant peonies. Citrus and the saltiness of pungent cheeses. It was a place for the locals, as far away from the Croisette and the movies as I could find on short notice.
I’d left my phone in the room, a wave of paranoia reminding me all the ways I could be tracked, followed. Uncovered. Since walking home from the yacht party, my brain had gone in overdrive. We’d acted rashly. Unconscionably.
And it was my fault.
Now was the time for reason.
Lou arrived first, wearing a crumpled button-down shirt and denim cutoffs, her face covered by a pair of large sunglasses. Next to me, the baker, a woman in her forties wearing a white apron, was filling up her stand with the kind of buzzing energy I had on a normal morning, humming a song to herself.
“Geez!” Lou said, noticing me. “You could have signed the note.”
“I’m not leaving any proof behind,” I said, making sure no one was listening. “We’re kind of going through something.”
“I’m aware.”
“You didn’t talk to anyone, did you?”
She stuck her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “Well, I did—”
“Hey!”
It was Constance, trotting toward us breathlessly.
