Page 71 of The French Honeymoon

“Leave it!” Cassie says, louder.

I do what she orders and drag a chair back. It scrapes against the floor, making us both wince. “What is it, Cassie?”

She puts on a smile and looks me deep in the eyes. “I still want to renovate the inn. You know, the way Olivier planned.”

“You mean the way I suggested and you told me at the time it was a dumb idea?”

She exhales loudly. “Yes, fine. You were right. That’s what you want to hear? You. Were. Right. But just because he decided to stay in Paris doesn’t mean we can’t do it ourselves. He got the paint cans already, and did you know he ordered tile samples for the bathrooms before we left? They should arrive soon. We could choose together.”

“You can’t be serious.” This is the last thing I thought we’d be discussing right now.

“Of course I am. And there’s something else. My dad left me some”— the doorbell rings, interrupting her. Cassie’s eyes bulge out—“Are you waiting for someone?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

She swallows hard.

I start to get up, but she puts her hand on my forearm. “Maybe we’re not home,” she says quietly. Pleadingly.

I get up anyway. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“We’re not always home!” she scream-whispers.

My spine tingles as I head out of the kitchen. “Our cars are out front. We’re definitely home.”

“Taylor, no! Don’t!”

I quicken my pace toward the front door, Cassie on my heels. Fearing she’ll try to stop me, I swing it open with a little too much force. It slams against the stopper, which makes a popping sound. Two people stand on the porch: a fortysomething Black woman, tall and slender, and a white guy with red hair and a beard. Both are dressed in street clothes, but the woman is already pulling out a thin wallet, flicking it halfway open to reveal a gold insignia.

My heart crushes inside my chest. “Yes?”

“Ms. Quinn?”

I feel Cassie react behind me, but I’m faster. “Yes.”

“Ms. Cassie Quinn?”

The next few seconds go by in a flash, like I’m not really here. Somebody else is experiencing them.

I step aside.

Cassie nods slowly, not glancing at me.

The woman presents her badge. She’s a detective, she explains. They both are.

They ask to come inside, their faces solemn.

And then they utter the words I feared the most for the past day, the ones I sensed deep down were coming, the ones I prayed I’d never hear.

“Ms. Quinn, we’re so sorry to inform you that your husband, Mr. Olivier Laurent, was found dead in his hotel room in Paris.”

I don’t know what Cassie does or what she says. I’m unable to process anything. The only thing I hear is the scream, screeching and feral, that permeates the air around us like thick smoke. It’s been going on for a few seconds when I realize it’s coming out of me.

And still I can’t stop it. In that moment I already know I can keep screaming and screaming and screaming, the pain will never go away.

Chapter 32

Cassie