Chapter 13
Amanda stared out at the snow as she lay in bed. She reached out to where Arnaud usually lay, curling into the space where he was not.
“Je t’aime,” he’d said to her on this very bed as she cuddled up to him, last night. She couldn’t believe he’d said it. She’d demanded to know what she was to him if not a mistress. And he’d said I love you.
She’d stared at him for long moments... until she had to ruin the moment by bawling her guts out. For though a part of her knew she loved him back, she was terrified to admit it even to herself. And so he had to go and beat her to it. Men! So typical.
Arnaud loved her and she loved him back. She’d told him so the moment she recovered from her bawling spree. In the face of that, of what value were labels like ‘girlfriend’ or ‘mistress’?
Amanda realized that her logical mind and its obsession with lists and schedules had held her back. Her concern about what other people thought was another problem. But no one she knew and cared about had a problem with her love life – not Savitri, not her assistant-trainee, and certainly not Arnaud’s circle of friends. Only she had had a problem with it and it had done nothing to make her happy.
There was still no guarantee of a life ever after, of course, still no certainty that this would even last out the year. But she was happy here and now, and that was all that mattered.
Arnaud was out of town on a business trip, not with his wife. It was she, Amanda Sorensen, he’d return to, not to Sophia Marguerite d’Havrincourt et du Lac. He’d come back here to this bed and to this home.
“Our home,” Arnaud had told her emphatically, “ours!”
Given the little she knew about Sophie’s condition, it was highly unlikely that he would ever share a bed with her again. Or a home. What they had on the 16th arrondissement was simply a house.
Comforted by that thought, Amanda let herself drift off to sleep.
And so she didn’t hear the front door open slowly. In an apartment this luxurious and well-maintained, doors do not creak. Nor do the heavily-carpeted floors, as the figure breezed through the foyer and into the living room.
The intruder moved through the large living room, needing no light as that which shone in from the full moon and the streetlights below were more than enough. The person paused at certain points, touching various items here and there, content to feel but not to take. For now.
Booted feet made their way unerringly to the oak doors that led to the corner master bedroom where Amanda slept – still curled up on Arnaud’s side of the bed. A gloved hand flicked, extending the blade of a butterfly knife as the other gloved hand turned the door handle.
The figure watched Amanda sleep for long minutes as their breathing became harder and harder with each passing moment. Raising the knife, the intruder approached the bed.
“I’M HERE, AMANDAAA!!!!”
Amanda shot up just as someone slammed into her, knocking her to the floor.
“I’M HEEERE! OUCH! STOP IT!!!”
Amanda scrambled away on all fours, smacking the wall till she hit the lights. She couldn’t understand what was happening. Two people were tussling on her bed. The first was a woman in a white sweater and jacket with leather gloves.
The other was Richie. “I’VE GOT YOU!” he yelled as he struggled with the woman. “Don’t worry, Amanda! I saw this bloke break in, and... Oh my god! It’s a woman!”
With a loud, hysterical scream, the woman kicked Richie off the bed, then glared at Amanda with such hatred. She scrambled around the bed, looking for something, then howled in frustration.
Amanda backed up, terrified. The woman bared her teeth, growling like a dog as she got up on all fours then launched herself across the space between them. Amanda braced herself against the wall and kicked out with her right leg.
“WAAAAAH!!!” screeched the woman until Amanda’s foot made contact with her stomach. “Uurk!”
Thud.
The attacker lay on the floor, gasping and convulsing as she tried to suck in air.
“I’m here, Amanda,” Richie wheezed on the other side of the bed. “Don’t worry! I’ll save you!”
Loud voices came in from the living room, heading their way. Amanda looked around desperately for something to use as a weapon. She grabbed the knife, still not understanding how it got there, but grateful for it, nonetheless.
Two uniformed men ran in and Amanda gasped in relief. They were the police.
“Amanda!” a woman yelled. “Amanda!” It was Camille. “Oh thank god, you’re alright!”
“I saved her,” came Richie’s weak voice as he struggled to get up.
“Camille!?” Amanda gaped. “Can someone please tell me what the heck is going on here!?”
*****
“I wasn’t sure it was her, at first!” Camille sobbed as Amanda paced back and forth in the living room. “She had scratch marks all over her hands the night you were attacked at the museum, but that meant nothing. Sophie would sometimes hurt herself. I only got suspicious when she kept mentioning the MNHN. And I wondered why she was so eager to fly to Australia. She wanted to get away.
“Then we retrieved this,” she handed over a series of black and white photographs. “It’s from a security camera in Montemartre. The pictures are grainy, but I’m sure she’s responsible for Arnaud’s car. She must have followed you. So I asked Guillaume to get the police report about your first attack. You described a red parka to them.” Camille shook her head. “That’s when I knew.”
Amanda still had a hard time understanding it all. “But how did you know to come here?”
Camille shuddered. “She killed her nurse. Sylvie found the body. Forgive me, Amanda. I should have sent her away sooner. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”