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Hugo

H ugo Morant sat up in bed, throwing his feet over the side and curling his back forward. He let his head and arms hang close to the floor, holding the position for twenty seconds, breathing through the pain the way his physical therapist had taught him to.

After getting shot in the lower back just three months earlier, he figured he was lucky he could walk at all. A bit of pain wasn’t going to faze him. He uncurled his back and stood up, walking around his bedroom until the dull ache receded, which usually happened after a few minutes.

He saw the boxes in the corner that he hadn’t yet unpacked, and now wouldn’t, since he was looking for a new place to live. This house had been right for three grown men living together but, now that Alex and Ry had moved in with their women, it was way too large for Hugo alone. Finding a new, smaller place made sense, even if he was going to miss the hot tub.

He also missed his friends. He still saw Alex and Ry, of course, but not every day, and not at work because they were still on active duty with the Chamonix Peloton de Gendarmerie de Haute Montagne , Mont Blanc’s elite mountain rescue team, while Hugo had been placed on an indefinite medical leave. Three months and counting .

His jaw tightened. He’d been told—by multiple doctors—that he was lucky to be alive. That getting back to work—to a job as physically demanding as mountain rescue—might be asking too much of his body. But Hugo wasn’t willing to believe that. Not yet.

Friends and family had often accused him of being a pessimist. He liked to think he was merely more honest than most people. He called things as he saw them, yes, but he was a realist through and through. And he wasn’t willing to accept a reality where he didn’t do everything in his power to get back to the only work he’d ever wanted to do.

Hugo showered quickly, careful not to touch the handle his landlord had installed for him when he’d first gotten home from the hospital. That handle had probably saved his sanity those first few weeks after getting shot, when standing even for a few short minutes was agony, but he didn’t want to touch it now. He wasn’t going to allow himself any more crutches, literal or figurative.

He donned a polo shirt and his favorite hiking pants—as close as he could get to the PGHM uniform without actually being on duty—and walked out of the house, breathing in the early morning air. It was the perfect June morning in the Alps—crisp, but with the promise of sun. Hugo knew it would get much warmer later in the summer, but this, this was exactly the kind of weather he preferred.

He walked—because walking was good for his back—all the way into town, across the river, and past the bus station. The first two months after the accident, he hadn’t been able to walk any distance. But, in the last month, he’d felt himself getting stronger with every passing day. In his last therapy session, he’d run three miles, a necessary milestone before being allowed back on active duty. But it wasn’t just about the physical requirements. He had to convince a whole lot of people that he was mentally ready—that this was something he could do.

He was almost at the gendarmerie when he saw Isla, Ry’s girlfriend. Hugo froze, wondering if he had time to cross the street before she noticed him. Not because he didn’t like her—Isla was great, and his friend had never been happier, so Hugo was a big fan. The problem was, every time they bumped into each other, she insisted on thanking him for saving her friend’s life back on the mountain. And it’s not that Hugo didn’t appreciate the sentiment, he just … well, didn’t appreciate it. He’d been lucky to find himself in the right place at the right time to help Isla’s friend. That was about it. Whatever happened after was his problem—not hers. He needed her to move on, just like he’d moved on.

Too late . She’d already made eye contact. Hugo would have to be a real asshole to cross the street now.

“Hugo,” she said, smiling brightly. When Hugo had first met her, her hair had been streaked in blue, but now the streaks were orange.

Hugo greeted her, steadying himself for the deluge of gratefulness that was coming. Instead, Isla laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just, you look so uncomfortable,” Isla said. “You know, I asked Ry about it the other day.”

“Asked him what?”

“Asked him why you didn’t like me.”

Hugo stiffened. “It’s not that I don’t like you, Isla.”

“That’s what Ry said. He said I make you uncomfortable because I keep asking about your back and saying thank you.” Okay … Hugo wasn’t about to deny that. “So. I decided I will not thank you anymore.”

“You won’t?” Hugo asked, trying not to show how relieved he felt.

“I won’t. In exchange, you have to do something for me, though.”

Anything . “Sure,” he said easily. “What do you need? Want me to beat Ry up for you?”

“Come to the studio tomorrow and let me show you some ideas I have for the tattoo we spoke about.”

He’d asked her for a Count of Monte Cristo tattoo. He’d completely forgotten about it, but clearly, she hadn’t.

“And if I do, you promise you’ll stop thanking me?”

“You’re Ry’s friend, Hugo. I don’t want you crossing the street—or thinking about doing so—every time you see me. Let me gift you the tattoo, and I won’t mention it again. Deal?”

“Deal,” Hugo conceded.

Her heart-shaped mouth broke into a lovely smile. “See? That wasn’t so hard,” she said cheekily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hugo walked on, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. This was good news. He was going to have to thank Ry at some point. But not today. Today, he had other things to worry about. He walked quickly past the gendarmerie , relieved not to see any of his teammates milling about. He turned the corner and headed to the misnamed After Dark coffee shop, which closed at five p.m. sharp every day.

Dr. Isolde Durant was already sitting down at a corner table, looking professional and put-together, as always, in a dark pantsuit and a light-colored blouse. “Hi Hugo,” she said, and though she smiled, there was a tightness around her mouth that told him he wasn’t going to enjoy the conversation.

Hugo tipped his head. “Isolde. How’s Drake?” Isolde was, as well as one of the police psychologists at the gendarmerie , Drake Jacobs’s fiancée. Drake and Hugo had been friends—and sparring partners—for years. He was one of those people Hugo would do anything for.

A soft look entered Isolde’s honey-colored eyes. “He’s fine. It’s you I want to talk about, Hugo.” She motioned to the empty chair in front of her. “Please sit down. I ordered you a coffee.”

“You want to talk here ?”

“I thought you would prefer to meet at a neutral place.” Her eyes narrowed when he made no move to sit down. “But if you’d prefer for me to call you in to my office, we can do that instead.”

No, thanks . He didn’t want to speak to Isolde at all on a professional basis, but here was preferable to in her office.

“I’m happy to talk to you about anything, Isolde,” he lied.

“Good. I’d like to talk about your nightmares.”

Fuck . Hugo had told her about the nightmares during one of their early meetings after he’d gotten out of the hospital. He’d never mentioned them again, but of course, Isolde being Isolde, she remembered and wanted to know more about them.

“It’s under control now.” It wasn’t . Most of what had been going on, he could cope with. The stiffness in his lower back. The pain. Even the uncertainty as to whether he’d be able to get back to work or not. But the nightmares … they were unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. They always started the same way. He was back in that mountain hut, the walls around him closing in, shadows stretching long and ominous. Animal bones everywhere . Usually, he was alone with the two women. He saw Laura and Isla’s faces—their eyes wide, pleading—but he couldn’t reach them. Sometimes, Ry was there as well. Hugo couldn’t save any of them. Their deaths were so bright, so gruesome, they left Hugo shaky for hours. Unable to sleep again, and afraid of even trying.

Sometimes, the dream ended with Hugo getting shot. He felt the fiery sting of the bullet as it penetrated his back, the pain giving way to a chilling numbness that crept through his lower body. No matter how he struggled, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, his body trapped in a moment as long as eternity. The ache felt so real, as if the wound had opened again, as the dream dragged him through the memory like a slow-motion horror show.

He could pinpoint exactly the last time he’d slept a full night. It had been three months ago, in the hospital, right after his second surgery, when he’d still been drugged out of his mind. Since that day, he was lucky if he slept one or two hours a night. And it was starting to wear him down.

A part of him wondered if speaking with Isolde might be a good thing. You can’t keep going like this. Maybe she can help you . But the thought of giving voice to his panic—it was too much, even if he trusted Isolde to have his best interests at heart.

“Come on. You want to talk to me, Hugo,” Isolde said firmly, but not unkindly.

I don’t. Not really. “Isolde, what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me about the nightmares. We can do it here, or I can call you in for a formal meeting at the station, if you’d feel more comfortable,” she threatened easily.

Hugo laughed. “You’re not leaving me much choice, Isolde.”

“Come on, Hugo. How long have we known each other? Stop stalling. How frequently are they happening now?”

Every time I close my fucking eyes . “Less often nowadays …”

“Do you remember what happens in the nightmare?”

I wish I didn’t. “Only sometimes. It’s all very fuzzy.”

Isolde took a small sip of her coffee. Hugo could tell she was pondering what to say. “I would like you to meet with someone else.”

“Not you?”

She shook her head.

“Because we know each other too well?”

Isolde’s voice softened. “Partly. But no. I think you need to see a therapist specializing in PTSD.”

Hugo stiffened. “I’m a rescue specialist, Isolde. This isn’t my first?—”

“I know,” Isolde interrupted. “I know you and the team see a lot every single day. But you can’t ignore the fact that you went through a traumatic situation, Hugo. One that your brain might be having trouble processing.”

“Don’t keep me from going back to work, Isolde. Please.” It’s the only thing that matters to me .

There was a faint hiss as Isolde inhaled and then released the air slowly from her lungs. “Your return has been approved for two weeks from now. All your reports are favorable, and I don’t have any formal reason to oppose it.” She paused, once again considering her words. “But I need you to take this seriously, Hugo. You know better than anyone how serious the job is. These nightmares—anything that keeps you from sleeping well at night—are a real issue. You need to see someone. And I have just the right person in mind.”

Hugo could barely hear her over the roaring in his ears. He’d been cleared. He was going back to work. His shoulders dropped as the load of three months of worry melted away. He was glad he was sitting already, or he might have fallen on his ass.

“Are you listening to me, Hugo?”

“You’re sure? I’ve been cleared to go back?”

“You’ll get a call today or tomorrow,” she said impatiently. “Please focus on what I’m saying. I want you to meet with Dr. Jo Marsh, one of the world’s foremost experts on PTSD, who just recently moved to Chamonix. I expect you to meet with Dr. Marsh three times a week for the next few weeks. Then we’ll see what’s required after that.”

Hugo nodded. He would have promised Isolde anything. Everything. “I can do that.”

“I’ve made the first appointment for you.” She pushed a folded piece of paper towards him. “Be there at 10 a.m. on Thursday. But I’m not your secretary. I expect you’ll make the next appointments yourself.” She paused. “Listen. Dr. Marsh sees very high-profile patients. Athletes. CEOs. It wasn’t easy to fit you in before Christmas.”

Christmas? It’s only June. Hugo laughed. “I get it, I get it. I'll be there, Isolde. I’ll see your doctor. Even if I’m feeling fine.” At this moment, it wasn’t even that much of a lie. He was feeling better than he’d felt in the last three months. He was going back to work.

Isolde’s lips pursed. “There’s one more thing. Dr. Marsh doesn’t work with the police. Whatever you speak about is between the two of you. I want you to do this for yourself, not for me. But I trust you to tell me if there’s anything … anything the department needs to know,” she finished pointedly. Hugo knew what Isolde was referring to. Anything that would endanger him or anybody else in his team. And she had him there. Because endangering his team wasn’t something he ever wanted to do.

“I promise.” Isolde stood up and Hugo followed instinctively, leaving his untouched coffee on the table. “Thank you.”

A s Hugo walked past the well-known black and yellow facade of the Bar d’Up, he felt as if he were going back in time.

His first studio apartment, when he’d first arrived in Chamonix, had been right above the bar and, since it turned out it was impossible for anyone in the building to sleep until the bar closed, he’d ended up spending a lot of time in the quaint little space. It was one of the few places in town where happy hour lasted two hours, between four and six every evening. Even when it was over, you could still get a buy one, get one free on all cocktails and soft drinks, a great deal by Chamonix standards.

An early riser by nature, those months had been a strange time in his life, but he’d been young and excited to be living alone for the first time in his life. He’d lived there until he’d finally landed the job with the PGHM unit in Annecy, where he’d rediscovered the luxury of uninterrupted sleep.

Shit . What he wouldn’t give to experience that now.

It was only recently that his unit had relocated to Chamonix. So here he was, once again. He didn’t regret the move. Though he’d enjoyed the comparative hustle and bustle of Annecy, the Alpine charm of Chamonix was hard to beat. Looking around him now at the narrow, cobbled Rue des Moulins, with the Mont Blanc massif in the background, he could see why people traveled from all over the world to be here.

He stopped before crossing the road and lit a cigarette. He was close to the address Isolde had given him, and he didn’t want to arrive early. He inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp mountain air, followed by the smoke’s harsh warmth. It was a disgusting habit, and one he’d gotten rid of years earlier. He’d only picked it up again recently, after a particularly violent nightmare. He was now smoking close to a half-pack a day, most of them between the hours of midnight and five a.m. Though he wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, the cigarettes were probably the only thing standing between him and insanity at night. Let’s hope Dr. Marsh can’t read minds .

He blew out the air slowly, releasing the smoke and, with it, some of the built-up tension, enjoying the lingering, slightly gritty feeling in the back of his mouth and throat. A wave of calm settled over him. He could do this.

As he raised his cigarette to his mouth again, the fabric of his shirt rubbed against the back of his shoulder. He felt the raw, vaguely pulsing sting of the fresh tattoo, still bandaged under his shirt. The pain was almost comforting—proof that, like the hero in the novel the tattoo alluded to, he was alive and moving forward. Isla had done an incredible job of capturing the essence of the story, with the ominous Chateau d’If prison on one side and a broken chain on the other side, symbolizing escape and the journey to freedom.

He wondered if the ink might be the first step to finding his own way to freedom—freedom from the memories that haunted him. He wondered what the therapist would make of that idea.

Truth was, Hugo wasn’t looking forward to the sessions with Dr. Marsh. He was used to relying on his own physical strength and grit, and the idea of lying on a couch, spilling his emotions to a bearded, middle-aged academic, didn’t sit well with him. He was pretty sure talking about the past wasn’t going to help him move forward. If he hadn’t promised Isolde—but he had, and he would keep his word. Six sessions. That was what he’d committed to, and that was what he was going to do. He pulled a piece of gum out of his pocket and chewed violently, waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

Hugo bypassed the corner café, where tourists were already lining up at this time of day to buy the famous Croix de Savoie pastries, and crossed the street towards the Alpina shopping gallery. This wasn’t Hugo’s favorite area of town. Between the ski shop, the grocery store, and the hotel, there were always too many people milling around. He much preferred his house, out in the mountains.

He found the right building, tucked between a podiatrist and a souvenir store. Why a psychologist would choose to set up his office in the busiest area of town was beyond him. With a deep breath, he reached for the door. The calm from the nicotine was long gone. He could feel the weight of what was to come as he stepped into unfamiliar territory.

There was a small, unassuming plaque by the front door—simpler than Hugo would have expected for the world-renowned expert Isolde had described. He rang the doorbell and was immediately buzzed inside a small, well-organized reception area.

Fighting the urge to run, he forced himself to step forward towards the front desk. “ Bonjour. ”

The receptionist, a woman in her late fifties, looked up as he approached. “ Monsieur Morant?” she said pointedly, looking him up and down. “You’re late.”

Hugo opened his mouth to set her straight. He was never late. Except a quick glance at the feature-packed Garmin on his wrist proved him wrong. It was three minutes past ten. He closed his mouth, then opened it again, to apologize this time, but the woman silenced him with a stare, raising an imperious finger to point him towards the waiting area. “I will let Dr. Marsh know you are here.”

Right . Hugo shuffled over and sat carefully on one of three compact beige chairs, hoping it would take his weight. He didn’t want to find out what the woman would do to him if he broke it. At least she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her expression had shifted back to something on the screen in front of her—something she liked a lot more than she liked him, from the way her expression softened.

Hugo jumped at the ringing in his pocket. Shit . He hadn’t remembered to silence his phone. He felt the receptionist’s eyes on him. He hoped he wouldn’t need any favors from her anytime soon. He finally pulled it out and saw his mother’s name on the screen. He silenced it. Conversations with his mother were never short, and he wasn’t about to piss off another woman this morning.

“Dr. Marsh will see you now,” the receptionist said, her tone arctic. Hugo stood up and thanked her, receiving a blank stare in response.

Hugo knocked and opened the door. He didn’t know what to expect. The only psychologist’s office he’d seen in his life was Isolde’s, and that was decorated much like the rest of the gendarmerie .

If he’d had to guess at what lay beyond the door, Hugo would have bet on dark wood filled with heavy tomes, thick curtains and a dark red psychiatrist’s couch. Channeling Freud much? This room was the exact opposite, decorated in light tones, clean, uncluttered, and calming. Minimalistic to the extreme, with only a desk in one corner, a half-empty bookshelf, and two armchairs facing each other on the other side of the room.

Standing behind one of the armchairs, in front of the window, was someone who was clearly not Dr. Joseph Marsh. Instead of the middle-aged man in a beard Hugo had pictured, Marsh was a striking young woman with skin the color of soft ivory and sapphire blue eyes. She wore a black tailored pencil skirt and a silky black top and, though her caramel-colored hair was done up in an austere bun that seemed designed to make her look older than she was, Hugo didn’t think she could be much older than thirty. Thirty … and heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

“Mr. Morant. I’m Dr. Marsh,” she said, her voice husky, her gaze direct and unwavering as she sat down on the armchair closest to her and directed him to the other one. She made no attempt to shake his hand, so Hugo assumed that simply wasn’t done. He sat down on the armchair, which at least seemed more solidly built than the one outside. “Is it okay if we speak English? My French is not very good yet.” A small, self-deprecating smile entered her face.

“English is fine, Dr. Marsh. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Despite his family’s humble origins, or perhaps because of it, his parents had always instilled politeness in him. And it wasn’t her fault that he was so uncomfortable. Or that he couldn’t stop staring at her. What the hell is wrong with you?

She cocked her head sideways. “Tell me why you don’t want to be here, Mr. Morant.”

Hugo stiffened. “I never said?—”

“Relax. I am not accusing you of anything.” She crossed her legs in front of her, and Hugo found himself breathing through his nose at the sight of those shapely calves. “Are you in pain, Mr. Morant?” she asked, frowning lightly.

In a way. He shook his head quickly. Asshole.

“Is it your back?” Hugo recoiled, then realized she would have read it in his file. He’d given Isolde permission to share his file with Dr. Marsh. No sense in making the woman work blindfolded. If there was any chance of her being able to help him—and he doubted there was—she would need to know as much as possible about him.

“I’m okay.”

She gave a sharp nod. Fuck, but she was beautiful. Hugo fought the urge to rearrange himself. And a part of him was glad to see things were still working down there—he hadn’t had a single sexual thought of any kind since getting shot—but, of all the darned times, it had to be here. It had to be now, at this most inconvenient moment. Talk about making a great first impression. All he could hope was that she hadn’t noticed.

“Why do you think you’re here?” Dr. Marsh paused for a second. “Let me rephrase. I know you’re here because Dr. Isolde Durant recommended you contact me. But what are you hoping to get from our sessions together?”

Hugo thought for a second. What he wanted most in the world was to go back to work. And he’d received confirmation that he would be back at work in two weeks’ time. What he wanted now was to ensure he didn’t end up putting any of his teammates in danger because he was too tired to function. He needed to start sleeping again. “I … since the accident, I've been having some dreams.”

Dr. Marsh scratched something quickly on the tablet in front of her. “What kind of dreams, Mr. Morant? I’m going to need you to be more specific.”

“Nightmares.” Just saying the word brought the most recent one to mind. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat, but he resisted the urge to wipe at it and call attention to his weakness.

“Good. In this office, let’s call them that.”

“I suppose you'll want to start by diagnosing me,” Hugo said, hating that he sounded so defensive.

“Will that help?” Dr. Marsh’s dark blue eyes shone with intelligence.

“Several doctors have suggested I might have PTSD.”

“Would you like a formal diagnosis?”

As much as I want a kick in the balls. “It’s not necessary?”

“A diagnosis is just a label, Mr. Morant. I would prefer we focus on the symptoms that are most impacting your life, rather than on the label.” She paused, her expression carefully neutral. She must be a great poker player . “I have found a formal diagnosis is most useful when a patient is distressed by the absence of said diagnosis, or when the patient doesn’t understand he has a problem. That doesn’t seem to be your case.”

Hugo shook his head. “I understand I have a problem.” The relief of just saying the words out loud was staggering. Hugo placed his palms flat on his knees to keep them from shaking. “Do you think you will be able to help me?”

The pen in her hand went up to her lips, and Hugo struggled against a new wave of inappropriate thoughts. How can her lips be so rosy when she doesn’t look like she’s wearing any make-up? Why does she have to be so beautiful?

“Since you gave your consent, I’ve read through the doctor and police reports. But I’m going to need you to tell me about the incident yourself. In your own words.”

Hugo had been expecting this question, but the retelling ended up being less painful than he thought it would be. Dr. Marsh was a studied, careful listener.

“How often do you think about it during the day, Mr. Morant?”

Hugo shrugged. “Rarely, if at all.”

“So it’s only when you sleep that you think about it?”

“Yes. That’s when the nightmares come.”

“Every night?”

“Every night.” Hugo felt as if he were sitting there naked in front of her. But there was no point in going through this if he wasn’t going to tell the doctor the truth. “It’s gotten so bad it’s … hard to even think of sleeping. And I don’t understand it, because it’s not the first time in my life that I’ve been in a life-or-death situation.” What makes this different?

Dr. Marsh put down her legal pad and pen with great precision, lining them up against the edge of the side-table next to her armchair before responding.

“It says on your file that you’re a structural engineer, Mr. Morant. Let me try for an engineering analogy, though the last time I took a physics course was a long time ago, so you might have to forgive me if I get it wrong. Imagine you’re using a pole to support a structure. The longer the pole, the more factors you need to consider, because the relationship between the length of the pole and the types of stress it can withstand is not linear.” Hugo shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Despite the seriousness of the situation, his other issue hadn’t quite shrunk yet, and this talk of long poles wasn’t helping. She paused, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on him. Thank God . “That’s probably not a very good analogy, but does it make sense? What do you think?”

He exhaled a long, deep breath. She wouldn’t be impressed with what he was really thinking. “You’re saying I shouldn’t compare this to other experiences I’ve had before.”

Her smile was radiant. “Exactly. You need to know, Mr. Morant, that what you’re experiencing is completely normal.” She raised her hand. “I don’t mean desirable. I mean normal. I understand, given your profession, that you’re no stranger to dangerous situations. But I also know that what you went through … getting shot and not knowing whether the women you were trying to protect would survive … that would take a toll on any human being.” Her blue gaze met his, direct and uncompromising. “But that doesn’t mean this is something you have to live with.”

“You think you can help me?” The words caught in his throat.

“I know I can help you, Mr. Morant. But you’re going to have to trust me first. I’m going to ask you to meet again tomorrow. And the next day. And you’re not always going to like the things I ask you to do or think about.”

“I’ll do anything,” he said honestly. “Except quit my job. Going back to work is my absolute priority.”

“And I’m going to assume you don’t want medication for your condition.”

His condition . That sounded awful. No, he didn’t want any fucking medication. He couldn’t work if he took medication. He’d quit the painkillers as soon as he could, and he wasn’t going to start them up again. “No medication.”

“Okay. There are several techniques we’re going to try, in combination with one another.” For the first time in months, Hugo felt a sliver of hope grow within him. Was it really possible? Would he be able to get over this?

A small bell chimed on the desk. Dr. Marsh looked up, as if surprised. “I guess that’s us for today.” Without looking down, she picked up her cell phone from the side table and dialed a number. “ Madame Lagarde, please clear space in my calendar for me to see Mr. Morant again tomorrow.”