Page 26

26

Jo

J o ran her hand gently along the wood on her desk, feeling each familiar scratch. The office was quiet except for the faint hum of her laptop and the occasional clack of her receptionist’s keyboard from the other room. Outside the window, she could hear traffic. Once in a while, an angry driver’s horn.

She’d insisted on coming back to the office. She’d needed it, after a full week of sitting idle at Hugo’s place. To her surprise, Hugo hadn’t argued. He’d simply told her he’d drop her off and pick her up himself.

“Promise me you won’t go anywhere until I come to get you,” he’d said, his hands resting on her shoulders as he’d helped her out of the car.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The morning hadn’t been as productive as she’d hoped. She’d planned on writing an entire chapter of her book, but instead her thoughts had kept going back to Hugo, and whatever was going on between them. Last night, after he’d fallen asleep, she’d held him for the longest time. But she still hadn’t told him she loved him. She leaned back, rubbing her temples.

Tonight. I’ll tell him tonight.

There was a soft knock on her door. Jo sighed. Though she was back in the office, things were far from normal. That morning as she’d walked through the door, Madame Lagarde had let go of her borderline frosty demeanor and given Jo a hug. Jo had welcomed it, holding on tightly for a moment longer than she probably should have. Since then, Madame Lagarde had knocked on her door at every half hour. Each time with a different excuse, usually something that she could have easily solved herself. “Come in, Madame Lagarde.”

“Dr. Marsh. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.” Jo thought for a moment. “Wait. Lunch.”

“Lunch?” The tone the older woman employed made Jo wonder if Madame Lagarde ate at all.

“Yes. Could you please order in for us from the Chinese restaurant three doors down?”

“For both of us?”

“Yes. Dumplings and chicken lo mein for me, please. They’ll deliver if you ask them.”

Madame Lagarde left, and Jo went back to her document. Her phone buzzed on the desk, distracting her again. She clicked to listen to the message from Hugo.

Everything okay?

Jo smiled faintly. She typed back, Fine. Writing. Miss you already.

His response came almost immediately, another voice message. Call me if you need anything. I’ll pick you up at five. She liked that he’d started sending her phone messages, preferred listening to his voice instead of her text reader.

She set the phone down and turned her attention back to the screen. Her fingers moved, typing out a sentence, deleting it, then starting again. The words felt stilted, but at least they were coming. She’d only just started to find her flow when Madame Lagarde came back with her food. The smell of the chicken lo mein made Jo’s stomach rumble.

They ate together in the small break room, making quiet conversation—something Madame Lagarde wasn’t known for but which Jo appreciated, nonetheless.

After lunch, Jo returned to her desk, feeling a little more energized. She stretched her arms, rolled her neck, and dove back into her writing. The chapter was coming together, the words finally flowing naturally.

As the clock ticked on, a wave of drowsiness washed over her. It was subtle, at first—a slight heaviness in her eyes, a faint sluggishness in her limbs. She shook it off, determined to push through. The lunch hadn’t been that heavy. She shouldn’t be this exhausted. By the time she realized something was wrong, it was too late. She stood up, searching for her cane, which she’d left propped up against the corner. It was heavier than it should be—its weight somehow foreign, when it usually felt like an extension of her own body. She reached the door, stumbled and righted herself with effort. Her cane hit something soft on the ground. Jo kneeled, because staying on her feet was an impossible challenge. Her breath hitched as her fingers brushed against the fabric of Madame Lagarde’s blouse. The older woman’s body was limp, but a faint, shallow rise and fall of her chest confirmed she was still breathing. Jo’s heart pounded against her ribs, fear surging through her like an electric current.

Jo tried to think, to force her muddled brain to work. The lunch. She and Madame Lagarde had shared the dumplings. Fear struck. The sound of a faint creak snapped her head up. Someone was there.

Jo’s hand instinctively went to her pocket for her phone, but it wasn’t there. She’d left it in her handbag, on her desk. The realization made her stomach plummet. She panted. Fear made it difficult to breathe. And then she smelled him. That mixture of cigarette smoke and gum that she’d smelled once before, in Becca’s car, after she and Horns had gone on a date.

No. Please, no.

“Hello, Jolene.” The voice was low, calm, and unmistakably familiar, even though she hadn’t heard it in person in years. Her blood ran cold.

Her body reacted before her mind could process the fear. She scrambled backward, her hands seeking purchase on the smooth floor, but it was like trying to crawl through molasses.

“No need to rush,” he said, his tone conversational, as though they were old friends catching up. “I was hoping we could have a chat.”

Jo’s hand tightened around the edge of her cane. She focused all her dwindling energy on that hand and swung the cane in front of her in a wide arc. The whoosh of the motion filled the air. “Stay back!” she shouted, the words trembling as they left her lips.

His soft chuckle sounded to the left of where she’d expected him to be. The sound that made her skin crawl. “So fiery. Your sister loved that about you.”

Jo’s mind raced. She needed to get out, to call for help, but that single swing of her cane had exhausted her. The weight of the drowsiness pulled at her, making her thoughts foggy.

“Please …” Her voice cracked. She sank back on her hands and knees. Her limbs felt like jelly.

“Let me tell you a secret,” he whispered, his breath thick and hot against her cheek. Bile rose to her throat. When had he moved this close? “I can smell your fear.”

“You’re not going to win,” she ground out. The effort of those words drained her.

His trainers squealed against the floor as he walked around her. “Win?” he mused. “Oh, Jolene. This isn’t a game. But if it makes you feel better to think of it that way, who am I to argue?”

The way he said her full name—the one she’d left behind—made her want to vomit. Her mind reeled. The urge to cradle her stomach was almost stronger than her, but she knew that was the worst possible thing she could do. No matter what, he couldn’t know. She couldn’t give him more power over her.

She raised her head, facing the door. Just a few feet away but might as well be on the other side of the world. She couldn't even stand, let alone hope to make it past him. Her fingers brushed the steel head of her cane. An idea flickered, desperate but worth a try.

“You think you’re in control,” she said, her voice steadier now, masking her fear with anger. “But you’re not.”

“Oh?” he said, amused. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m not afraid of you anymore,” she lied. The biggest lie she’d ever told. Before he could respond, Jo swung the cane with all her strength, aiming for the sound of his voice.