Isabel and I settled in the drawing room to continue our interview, where Raphael had kindled a cheerful fire before discreetly slipping from the room. Once again, Isabel placed her phone, recorder running, between us. She didn’t take notes, but I had the impression that very little slipped from her memory.

“I know a little bit about your career here,” Isabel said. “But we can talk more about that later. Right now, I’d like to hear some more about your childhood in France.”

I felt my shoulders stiffen. We were heading into dangerous territory, and I needed to steer her away as quickly as possible. “Why is that important?” I asked. Isabel smiled comfortingly.

“It helps lend the article color,” she said. “By learning about your childhood, the audience gets a clearer idea of who you are now.”

This made sense, but still, I didn’t like it. Silently, I cursed Étienne for convincing me to do this to begin with.

But Isabel was still looking at me, expectation in her wide brown eyes. There must be something I could tell her, something that would satisfy her without sharing too much of myself. I just had to be careful.

“The village I grew up in was small,” I said. “Not rural, not exactly, but nothing like Paris or Nice. We had everything we needed: a bakery, a butcher, a library.”

Isabel smiled. “Were you a big reader as a child?” she asked.

I shook my head, “Not exactly,” I said. Isabel waited, but I offered no more information.

“What did you like to do in your spare time? Any hobbies, activities? Were you always an active child?”

I shifted uncomfortably under her barrage of questions. This wasn’t going according to plan at all.

“Bernard and I, we were close, like brothers. We spent all of our time together.”

Isabel nodded, and I suspected she’d already heard most of this from Bernard. I wondered what else he had told her. An icy cold hand gripped my heart. “What did the two of you do together?”

An image rose to mind, unbidden, of Bernard, fists clenched, standing between me and the older boy who had been advancing on me. I pushed it away. Not now, I told myself. “I don’t recall,” I said. “It was so long ago.”

Isabel nodded, though I could tell she didn’t quite believe me. “What was your home life like?” she asked, her voice gentle.

The hand around my heart squeezed tighter, and I struggled to control my breathing. Deep, steady breaths, I reminded myself. But this was what I had feared, why I had refused to be interviewed. I couldn’t answer her questions, couldn’t revisit that time. I couldn’t tell her of the daily beatings, the tears, the angry shouting that made up my early years. That my mother had left me, seeing even then that I wasn’t worth the effort. The first woman of many to see me for what I was: violent, broken. Unlovable.

I’ll be the last person to ever love you. Agatha’s voice echoed in my mind.

My breath came in short gasps, and a familiar swirling blackness rose in me. My head pounded, my heart wasn’t beating right. Not again. Not right now. I wrestled for control, my hands clenched tightly against my sides, nails biting into the soft flesh of my palms until I felt them draw half moons of blood.

Isabel was looking at me with alarm. “Mr. Martin?” she asked. “Jacques? Are you okay?”

But I couldn’t answer her, couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening.

Isabel rose to her feet. “Jacques?” she asked. “What can I do? What do you need?” She laid a gentle hand on my arm, and I pulled away roughly, finally finding my voice.

“Get out,” I said.

Isabel hesitated. “But—”

“LEAVE,” I shouted. “Leave me alone, now.” I saw Isabel’s face go pale, and I knew I was frightening her, but I was beyond caring. I needed her gone, needed to be alone. She couldn’t be here for this, couldn’t see —

Isabel backed away until she reached the door, then turned and fled. Instead of guilt for scaring her, I could only feel relief that she was finally gone.

Darkness swam in my mind, and I finally allowed myself to succumb to it.

15

Isabel

I ran blindly, with no heed to where I was going or why. When I finally came to rest, I realized I was in the rose garden. My breath came in uneven gasps, my chest heaving with the effort, and I realized I was crying. I sank to my knees in the dirt and sobbed freely, finally letting everything out.

I cried because Jacques had frightened me, because I was failing at the task Bonita had assigned to me, because my father was so poorly, my mother was dead, my marriage was a failure.

Everything was falling apart. I had come here so confident that I could handle the assignment, but I could see now that it was impossible. The memory of the cold fury in Jacques’ eyes made me shiver. There was something he was keeping from me, something he was afraid to touch. I could see that clearly, but I couldn’t see how to make him trust me. I would never be able to write an article with any substance if I couldn’t get my subject to open up to me. I would have to go home, would have to tell Bonita that I was not the journalist she thought I was.

Tags: Nicole Casey Seven Ways to Sin Fantasy
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