Page 24

24

Jo

T he gendarmerie was cold. Or maybe it was her. Maybe the cold was inside her.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea, Hugo,” she said quietly. She knew where the door to the meeting room was. She could get up and leave anytime, she told herself. But still, she didn’t move from her seat, because she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Hugo. “I don’t want to put more people at risk.”

She was already risking too much by staying in Chamonix. By moving into Hugo’s place, she was putting him at risk, too. But he’d given her no choice. Last night, she’d been in shock—in no state to go anywhere. He’d helped her pack her essentials and had taken her to his house. She hadn’t slept much, and knew he’d slept even less. This morning, after breakfast, he’d convinced her to come to the gendarmerie and involve his team. It had seemed the logical thing to do, when he’d explained it, but she’d begun having second thoughts as soon as she’d stepped into the meeting room.

Maybe it was simply the lack of control. Since going blind, she’d been careful to control everything—or if not everything, at least as much as possible—about her environment. The idea of surrendering control felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was anything to catch her. But this … this was something she couldn’t control. There was no controlling Bartholomew Horns.

“You’re not the one putting anyone at risk, Jo.” Hugo’s voice was calm, but firm. He leaned closer, until she could feel his breath, warm and fresh, on her cheek. “Listen to me. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t cause this. And you sure as hell don’t have to face it alone.”

“You don’t understand. This man killed my sister. I know what he’s capable of. What if he hurts you? What if—” Her voice cracked, and she sucked in a breath, her hands trembling.

“Hugo. Jo.” Jo recognized Beau Fontaine’s authoritative voice, by the doorway. The rest of Hugo’s team followed, each man saying his name as he sat down. Alex. Tristan. Ry. Lorenz.

“So. Tell us what we need to know about this man, Jo.”

Hugo’s hand brushed against hers, steady and grounding. She took a deep breath. “His name is Bartholomew Horns. Six years ago, he stalked and killed my sister. When he escaped from prison, the FBI told me there was a high chance he would come looking for me.”

“That’s when you came to Chamonix?”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had no contacts here, no ties to this place in any way. I thought I’d be safe.” Hugo’s hand tensed around hers.

“Have you already informed the FBI?” Beau asked.

Jo nodded. “I wrote to the special agent in charge of the case last night and sent him the two emails I received. He called me back almost immediately. He confirmed the FBI had made no progress on the search for Horns since he escaped from prison six and a half months ago.” Jo shuddered as she recalled the call. Special Agent in Charge Rhodes had seemed almost excited to hear from her. As if this might be his chance to catch Horns.

“Is it okay if we call him?” Beau asked.

Jo nodded, her throat tight. “I have his details here.”

“We’ve gathered as much as we can from the email header and metadata,” Alex said. “It’s not much, but it’s a start. The emails were both sent from the United States.”

Jo tensed. If that was true, if Horns was still in the US, then—“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Tristan said. “It’s easy enough to set that up, or he could have had somebody else send the message for him.”

“Colonel Pelegrin made some inquiries this morning. Nobody with that name has traveled into France, or anywhere around the European airspace, within the last weeks.”

“But he could be traveling under a different name. He’s had six months to organize one,” Hugo said grimly.

“He’s a fugitive,” Tristan said. “He knows the FBI is looking for him. Now Interpol as well. He’d be crazy to risk it.”

“He is crazy,” Jo said, her voice harsh to her own ears. “Or at least, he’s not well. My sister didn’t take the threat seriously enough, and in the end …”

“I’m sorry to ask, Jo, but we need to know exactly what happened,” Beau said.

Jo turned toward the voice, her fingers flexing on her lap. “Becca went out on a few dates with Horns. Nothing serious. He was a perfect gentleman, but my sister didn’t feel a zing. That’s what she used to call it.” She stifled a sob as she thought of Becca, and how full of life and fun she’d been. “She tried to let him down gently, but he didn’t take it well. At first, he just called her a lot—kept asking for another chance. But he didn’t stop. Then he started showing up at her workplace, her gym, even outside her apartment building. Eventually she got scared and filed a restraining order.”

Jo paused, swallowing hard. Hugo’s hand tightened slightly on hers. She clenched her jaw and pushed on. “It didn’t stop him. If anything, it escalated things. He sent emails … so many emails. The day before she died, she told me she’d seen him parked outside her apartment again. She called the police, but by the time they arrived, he was gone. I don’t think the police believed her.” Jo’s voice cracked, and she had to stop.

Hugo slid his chair closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. “You don’t have to go on,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do,” Jo whispered, shaking her head. “You need to understand what he’s capable of.” She turned her sightless eyes toward the room, addressing them all. “The following night, Becca and I went out to dinner. Becca was driving. I don’t know how he found us. It was dark, and he chased after us. There was a truck. Becca swerved to avoid hitting it, and we went off a cliff. Becca died immediately. I was airlifted to a nearby hospital.”

The silence in the room could have been cut with a knife.

“He went to prison?” It sounded like Lorenz.

“There were witnesses who’d seen the whole thing. The truck driver, but also another car coming behind us. And because Becca died, he went to prison.”

“And then he escaped.”

“I don’t know how he did it, the FBI never told me. But he’s smart. Back when he was stalking Becca, he was always able to convince the police that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. And the first thing he did after he escaped, was call me.”

“But I thought your sister was the one he was obsessed with,” Tristan said.

“The FBI found some notebooks in his cell. It appears he transferred his affections to me during his incarceration. He began calling me—taunting me, trying to scare me. And the FBI couldn’t find him. Special Agent in Charge Rhodes was the one who suggested I leave. He thought I wouldn’t be safe if Horns knew where I was. And now he knows,” she finished, feeling exhausted.

“We’re not going to let him hurt you, Jo,” Hugo said firmly. Jo turned toward him, her expression conflicted. She wanted to believe him—wanted to feel the certainty in his voice seep into her bones. But she couldn’t ignore the icy weight of fear coiling in her chest. Fear that wasn’t just for herself, but for everybody in this room.

“We’ll coordinate with the FBI and Interpol,” Beau said.

She wanted to badly to believe them. She was so tired of being alone. “Is there … is there anything I can do to help?”

The room went quiet for a beat, and then Beau spoke again, this time directly to her. “You’ve already helped by telling us what you know. We’ll catch up with Special Agent in Charge Rhodes. We’re already monitoring European airspace in case Horns even thinks of coming here. But we need you to stay with Hugo for now.”

Hugo’s hand brushed against hers again, a subtle but reassuring gesture. “You’re doing the right thing. Trust me on this.”

She wanted to tell him that she did trust him—that he was the only reason she was still sitting here instead of running. But the words stuck in her throat.