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Jo

B y ten p.m. Jo was beginning to lose hope of getting discharged that evening. She hated hospitals, and really didn’t look forward to spending the night in one.

She sighed. She had no right to complain. She’d been checked out from head to toe and, other than a sprained ankle, which had been bound tightly, she was fine. Most importantly, her daughter was fine. According to Dr. Carrel, who she now knew was Beau Fontaine’s wife, the baby wouldn’t have felt any of what happened.

There was a knock on her door. Hugo stood up from the chair next to her bed. He hadn’t left her side all night, except when a nurse had dragged him away to get twelve stitches on his cheek, claiming he was bleeding all over the place. The same nurse had confided that Tristan, too, had received twenty-six stitches on his arm.

“Madame … sorry, Doctor Marsh,” a female voice said. “I am Gendarme Ducroz. Next to me is Gendarme Charlet. We would like to talk to you about what happened.”

“Do you feel up to it, Jo?” Hugo asked. It warmed her inside, to know that he would protect her, even from his own colleagues, but she wanted to get this over with.

“Did you find him? Did you find Horns?”

“We found his body,” the second gendarme said. A man, this time.

His body. Jo felt a chill run through her. “He’s … dead?”

“It is likely he hit his head on a rock when he fell,” Gendarme Ducroz said. “We’ll know for certain tomorrow, once the autopsy is finished.”

Jo pulled the sheet higher against her body. She wondered if she’d ever feel warm again. Hugo’s fingers laced with hers, his grip firm and grounding. “So, it’s over,” she said.

“There are a couple more things you need to know. We’ve spent all evening on the phone with the FBI and with Interpol. Horns traveled here from Canada.”

“Why didn’t we know? Did he have a fake ID?” Hugo asked.

There was a long pause, as if the gendarmes were debating how much to say. She tightened her hold on Hugo’s hand. “Please. I need to know.”

“A man’s body was found three days ago, in Toronto.”

“Three days ago?” That didn’t make any sense. Horn had—“He’d been dead for weeks. But his passport was used to book a flight from Toronto to Brussels ten days ago.”

Jo’s heart hurt. Yet another senseless death. That man probably had family. People who cared about him, and whose lives had been torn apart by Horns’s anger.

“It’s over, Jo,” Hugo said. “He’s not going to hurt anyone ever again. You’re safe.”

Safe. It’d been so long since she’d felt safe. But now, with Hugo next to her, the word started to take on a new meaning. She listened as the police excused themselves and left.

“I went to see Madame Lagarde earlier,” Hugo said.

Jo tensed. She’d already exchanged some messages with her. “Is she really okay?”

“Completely recovered from the drug, but she’ll stay in the hospital overnight, just to be safe. The drug was in the dumplings. Madame Lagarde told us you only tried one, and she ate the rest. That’s why it affected her more.”

“How did Horns manage to drug our food?”

“He tricked the delivery boy. Told him he wanted to put a love note for you inside the bag and gave him fifty euros.” A note of anger entered Hugo’s voice.

She took his hand in hers. “We’re going to let it go.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

“I say so. I’m glad Madame Lagarde is alright.”

“She had a visitor. Saul, from the restaurant at La Flégère.”

“Wow. News travels fast.”

Hugo laughed. “What can I say? Chamonix is a small town.”

“I hope she’s not going to quit,” Jo said thoughtfully. “I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“She’s not going to quit. She was much happier once she heard you were okay.”

Jo’s expression turned serious. “And what about you? How’s your face?” Her hand came up, searching, finding his bandaged cheek.

“It’s fine. Just a few stitches.”

“I’m so sorry. Horns could have killed you or Tristan.”

“Shhh …” Hugo said, pulling her into his arms. “We’re fine. And he’s never going to hurt you again.”