Page 10

10

Jo

T hat morning, Jo woke up feeling great. It looked like finally, finally, she was over that damn bug.

There had been no giant sharks in her dreams—no giant sharks, but a whole lot of Hugo. She’d touched his cheek the night before—rugged and prickly. She would have liked to run her hands all over his face, but that had seemed too forward, when his hands stayed on her waist.

But she’d wanted to explore. The desire that had coiled within her was something she hadn’t felt in years. Maybe since losing her eyesight. She wondered how far they would have gone if he hadn’t gotten that call from work. All the way?

She hadn’t just thought about him. She’d touched herself to thoughts of him—flicked her clit into a frenzy, imagining what those large, rugged hands would have felt like on her— inside her—wondering how many of his fingers it would take to make her feel full. Imagining how hard she could come, when he finally penetrated her with his cock. And then she’d slept and gone on to dream of him.

In the elevator, she ran her hands over her hair, checking there were no strange bumps in her ponytail. She didn’t worry too much about her clothes, because everything she owned was black. She had enough things to concern herself with, without worrying about whether the clothes she chose on any particular day would clash. She just had to check that the feel and texture were what she was looking for. Today, she’d chosen a pair of jeans and a soft cashmere short-sleeved top and cardigan. Later in the day she’d take the cardigan off, but for now, she was glad to have it.

She made her way downstairs to the Alpina hotel café. The scent of freshly brewed coffee made her stomach growl. The low hum of conversation mingled with the faint clatter of cups and the whoosh of the espresso machine. Her cane tapped softly against the wooden floor, a rhythmic guide through the space.

“Your usual table is free, Mademoiselle, ” the barista called out. This was their routine, and Jo liked that he didn’t offer to help her find her table, just let her know she wasn’t about to plonk her ass down on some stranger by mistake.

“Thank you, Johannes,” she called out. “I’m waiting for a friend today. She’ll be here in a bit.” She counted her steps, guided by the faint hum of the television mounted on the far wall. The sound served as her beacon, a small anchor in the bustling room. The corner table under the television was her favorite spot. The volume was on low, as usual, but it was enough for her to catch bits of the France 24 news program that always played on at this time in the morning. Good practice .

She sat down, placing her cane neatly against the side of the table. There was a strange urgency to the anchors’ voices today, and it took her a moment to realize they were talking about something that had happened here, in the Alps. An incident on the Mont Blanc cable car.

Jo’s heart sped up. Was that the reason Hugo had been called out, the previous night? Is he okay? Her hands moved with practiced ease, retrieving her phone from her bag. She ran her fingers across the screen, activating the voice-over feature to check the time. She still had ten minutes. Enough time to figure out what was going on. Because listening to the news in French might be good language practice, but if she wanted to know what had really happened, she needed to do it in English.

It was worse than she’d imagined. No wonder the news anchors sounded so flustered. Close to a hundred people had spent the night dangling from cable cars, hundreds of feet up in the air. A member of the Chamonix Search and Rescue team had been airdropped into each of the cars and spent the night with the passengers, providing help and supplies.

Jo pulled in a slow, deliberate breath. There was no doubt in her mind that Hugo had been one of those people. She kept listening. It said everybody had been rescued successfully early that morning. No casualties. No significant injuries. Hugo was fine.

She checked her missed calls log, though she already knew he hadn’t called. It’s not like they were married, or anything. All they’d done was kiss. There were probably dozens of people he’d call before her—if he felt like calling anybody at all. For all she knew, this was business as usual for him.

A faint click of heels caught her attention. Low, soft, and purposeful. Jo smiled slightly as the sound grew louder, stopping near her table.

“You’ve got the best seat in the house,” Isolde said, her tone light and conversational.

Jo smiled. “I like the corner. Besides, someone has to keep an ear on the news,” she replied, unable to hide her concern.

Her colleague pulled out the chair across from her, the legs scraping lightly against the floor. “Ah, the news. You’ve heard what’s happened, I imagine?”

“Is everybody okay?” she asked, when what she really wanted to know was, is Hugo okay?

“Everybody’s fine. They did a good job.”

“Your husband is with the PGHM as well, right?” Jo asked, wondering if she was crossing the line. While Isolde might well be her closest acquaintance here in Chamonix—somebody she knew and respected professionally, but who had also gone out of her way to be kind to Jo since she’d arrived in town—they weren’t yet friends .

But Isolde didn’t seem bothered by the question. “Yes. Drake is part of Commandant Damien Gray’s team.” The name didn’t sound familiar to Jo. “Hugo is in another unit, led by Commandant Beau Fournier. They are the two sibling PGHM units.”

“They really spent the night up there?”

“An air extraction wouldn’t have been safe in the dark, so yes, they went in with supplies and made sure everyone was safe. They’re all down safely now.”

Jo nodded noncommittally, hoping Isolde couldn’t tell just how badly she wanted to call Hugo.

“Thanks for meeting me, Jo. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long.”

“Not at all. I was a bit early.” She heard the barista’s soft footsteps. “The usual, Johannes, please, for me.”

“And an Americano for me,” Isolde said. “I’m trying to lose ten pounds. I refer to them as baby weight, but in reality they were there long before the baby.”

“You have a boy, right?” She searched in her mind. “Benjamin?”

“You have a good memory. If you ask Drake, he’ll tell you we haven’t slept a full night since he was born.”

Jo smiled. Although she’d spoken many times with Isolde, this conversation felt different … it felt a lot like a friendship. “Maybe I could give him some tips for going back to sleep after waking up. I know that’s often the challenge, for me.”

“That would be great. Listen, I wanted to ask you about Hugo. I’m mindful of confidentiality, of course. You know he came to see me.”

Jo felt herself blush bright red. “He was right to suggest we not see each other on a professional basis anymore.” She wasn’t going to hide the fact that she was interested in him.

“I’m glad, if this something that …” Isolde paused delicately, “… something that you’re both happy with. But I would like to make sure he finds another therapist.”

Ah . And here it was. The real reason Isolde had wanted to meet. “I’ve already reached out to a couple of colleagues who might be able to fit him into their schedules. They’re in the US, so the meetings would have to be virtual. But they are the best of the best.”

“Good, good. I’m worried that the nightmares are worse than he’s letting on.”

Jo could reassure Isolde there, without breaking confidentiality. She would make sure Hugo got the help and the tools he needed.

“I was also wondering,” Isolde continued, “if you might be able to impart a session at the gendarmerie . Hugo mentioned some of the breathing exercises you’ve been doing together, and it seems like that’s something we could all benefit from learning more about.”

Jo smiled. She’d done similar sessions before, back at home, for sports teams and C-level executives. Doing one for the PGHM would be an exciting professional challenge.

They talked through some of the details, the conversation flowing easily between them. By the time Jo said goodbye to Isolde and went back to her office, she was feeling optimistic about the world. She’d made the right decision, coming to Chamonix. Everything was going to be just fine.

T he overwhelming swell of nausea was fierce in its unexpectedness. Jo felt her way to her office bathroom using the walls for support, too ill to even consider counting steps, glad that it was early enough that Madame Lagarde hadn’t arrived yet. She didn’t think her efficient receptionist would appreciate this.

She reached the bowl just in time for the coffee she’d consumed to come out. The smell of curdled milk reached her nostrils, making her heave again. What the hell is going on? This was like no gastro she’d ever experienced. It came and went and—Jo stilled, one hand on the porcelain bowl, the other on her belly. She sat back on her heels, her breath shaky and uneven. The cool tiles beneath her knees offered no comfort. Her hand remained on her stomach, the faint swell of her abdomen suddenly more evident than it had ever been.

"No," she whispered to the empty bathroom. "That’s not possible. It can’t be."

But the voice in her head, the practical, logical one she often relied on, cut through her denial. Condoms weren’t 100%. And mediocre sex was no guarantee against pregnancy. The memory of that last sexual encounter, her only one in many months, rose to her mind. Was it nine or ten weeks ago? The logistics had seemed handled. She’d been careful. They’d both been careful.

Her pulse raced as she pushed herself up, one hand against the wall for support. She needed confirmation, no matter how impossible it seemed. Grabbing her cane, which she’d dropped outside the small bathroom, she left her office, her movements sharp and deliberate.

The old-fashioned bells jingled as Jo stepped into the pharmacy. The scent of antiseptic and the faint crinkle of plastic packaging surrounded her, and she paused, orienting herself by sound.

A voice called out from the counter. "Hello, can I help you with anything?"

Jo hesitated, her grip tightening slightly on her cane. There was no way she was going to be able to navigate this without help. "Yes. I… I need a pregnancy test, please." The words felt heavier than she’d expected, and the pause on the other end told her they’d landed with weight.

"Of course." There was the faint rustle of packaging. “Will that be all?”

Should she buy two? Best start with one. Don’t make this more complicated than it has to be. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Jo paid, and the woman placed the small box in Jo’s outstretched hand. Now what?

“Would you like to use the bathroom?” the woman asked, not unkindly. Heat rose to Jo’s face. Her pride bristled, but she’d learned that knowing when to ask for help was part of life. And not just for her, as a blind woman. Everyone needs help sometimes .

“Thank you.” She followed the pharmacist to the back. She heard the woman turn on the light. Not that Jo needed it, but she understood it was instinct.

“The toilet is right in front. The sink to your right,” the woman said, before leaving Jo inside and closing the door.

Jo sat on the closed toilet lid, holding the test in her lap. She’d assured the pharmacist she could handle the mechanics herself. She’d done it several times before losing her eyesight. That part was simple enough. She took a deep breath, steeling herself as she unwrapped the test. Moments later, she set the stick on the counter and washed her hands, her heart hammering in her chest.

When she opened the door, the pharmacist was waiting just outside. “Let me check for you,” she said. Jo nodded, grateful she hadn’t had to ask for help, and handed the stick over. The silence that followed, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, felt heavy, unbearable. Then the words came.

“It’s positive,” the pharmacist said, in a tone that was both professional and kind.

The world seemed to tilt, then righted itself. Jo realized she’d already known the answer before the pharmacist spoke. She felt the pharmacist step back slightly, giving her space. “Would you like me to package it up for you?”

“Yes, please,” Jo said. She did not know what she was going to do with it, but it seemed wrong to leave it behind.

The pharmacist’s voice softened. “Is there someone I could call for you?”

Jo shook her head. “No. Thank you for your help, though.”

She left the pharmacy moments later, the paper bag clutched tightly in her hand like a secret she wasn’t ready to share. As she walked back to the office, her thoughts churned.

She gripped her phone in her hand. She wanted to call her mom, but she couldn’t. Not while Bartholomew Horns was free. The FBI had told them to take the threat seriously. Because Horns could be tracking her parents’ phones. She had to stick to the plan and wait for her mother’s biweekly call, next Saturday afternoon.

Jo walked back into the office and said hello to Madame Lagarde, who sounded like she was engaged in a full reorganization of the filing cabinet. She placed the paper baggie in her drawer. How did I not think of this sooner? She was thirty-two years old. Blind, but healthy as a horse. This isn’t some impossible twist of fate .

Her hand found her belly again, and for a brief, surreal moment, she imagined the life forming inside her. Once, when she was younger, she’d dreamed of a house full of children, laughter filling every corner. Three or four of them.

But not like this. Not now. She didn’t even know the father’s full name. What would she tell the kid when he—or she—asked about him? Your dad was a pleasant man and a mediocre lay .

Okay, so she’d have to find the man and let him know about the child. She’d put that on her to do list. Find a local gynecologist—maybe Isolde could help there. She breathed in slowly. Her current situation wasn’t that bad. Yes, she was alone, blind, and on the run, but she wasn’t a lost teen. She had her career. She could bring up a child. Her mind froze. She’d have to tell Hugo something as well. Just hours earlier, she’d thought there might be a future for the two of them. But she knew better than most just how much things could change in an instant.