It was easier to talk to Charlie when they were both looking at the Christmas tree than when they were looking at each other. Yale breathed deeply and said, “I want to reassure you. I’ve said this before, and I shouldn’t have to say it, but I know for some reason it was always a concern for you. And you need to know that Julian and I never touched each other.”
Charlie jerked away and looked at Yale wild-eyed.
“I’m sorry, I thought maybe—I thought that might have been on your mind.”
Charlie stood, throwing the blanket off like it was covered with spiders. He said, “Bloody fucking hell, Yale.”
“Okay, I shouldn’t have brought it up. Come back. Come here. Come here.”
Charlie did, and he cried for a while into Yale’s chest hair, and then he fell asleep there.
2015
Arnaud had asked her not to call till 10 a.m., so Fiona called at 10:01. He didn’t answer and so she tried again, and then she killed time by showering. At 10:26, he answered.
He said, “You got some rest?”
“Tell me,” she said.
“I have photos, if you’d like to see.”
“Was it them?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Was there—did they have—was it just them?”
“Two adults. Listen, I can describe these forever or you can look for yourself.”
They agreed to meet at noon at a place in Saint-Germain called Sushi House—not really Fiona’s idea of Paris, but at least she pronounced it easily for the taxi that took her there. And when they sat down and she made herself look at the menu, kept herself from diving across the table to rip open Arnaud’s messenger bag, she could also understand the food being described: sake nigiri, ikura, miso.
Arnaud told her he’d waited in his car till eleven, and at last Kurt and Claire had come walking past his window, hand in hand.
Arnaud held his phone out over the table. “You ready?” he said.
She didn’t understand at first. She’d been expecting him to pull out a stack of glossy 8 × 10s. But the photos were on his phone; of course they were.
The first was just of Kurt, a close-up.
“It’s him,” she said. She waited to be overwhelmed with rage at the sight of his face, but instead she felt just the buzz of recognition, the click of encountering an old friend—which, after all, he was. Fiona couldn’t ever see him without also seeing the kid he’d been, the smart, nervous boy who would rattle off facts about German submarines and spy planes.
The phone was still in Arnaud’s hand, and so she said, “Okay, I’m ready. Next?”
But the next photo showed both Kurt and a tall woman with thick black hair. They were hand in hand, and the woman held a plastic shopping bag. It was not Claire.
She yanked the phone from him, scrolled to the next photo and the next. They were taken in rapid succession, so it looked like a flip-book as the two figures moved down the sidewalk.
“No,” she said. “Fuck.” She was angry at Arnaud, which made no sense. “No.” She felt trapped in the booth, suffocated under the yellow lights and quiet music.
“It’s not her?”
“How does that even remotely look like her?”
“She could have dyed her hair.”
“What, she dyed herself a different nose too? She dyed herself taller?”
“Okay,” he said, “calm down. It’s good, yes? This means she’s not with him anymore.”
She smacked the phone facedown next to the soy sauce, grabbed her purse.
“Where are you going? Order some food, okay? So, we have some more steps to take. We need to plan those out. Here. Drink water.”
She put the glass to her forehead instead of drinking from it, and when the waitress came by Arnaud ordered for her.
“Let me see again,” she said, and Arnaud unlocked his phone, handed it back.
Kurt’s hair was pulled into a bun, his face shaved. He looked maybe half Hosanna. Hard to tell with the woman. Long hair parted down the middle. Fiona couldn’t see, washed out as this woman was by the streetlights, if she had makeup on. She wore a coat, but her legs were cut off by Arnaud’s camera. Fiona studied each shot again, as if clues would be lurking in the background.
Arnaud said, “Does the group have—do you say polygamy?” He pronounced it like a French word.
“Yes. I mean, yes, that’s the word. But they don’t, actually. Thank God.” Was she really thankful? It meant Claire didn’t live in that apartment. That she might not even be in Paris. But wait, no, the video. The video was in Paris, and Kurt was in Paris. So Claire had been in Paris, at least. “If Claire left him,” she said, “she probably left France too. She’s—how does immigration even work? You can’t just stay somewhere, right? If you’re not a citizen?”
Arnaud shrugged. “Plenty of people stay illegally.”
What if, the very day Fiona got here, Claire had decided to show up at her door in Chicago? What if she’d knocked, went away, came back, figured Fiona had moved? What if she’d come by the store, asked around, was told that Fiona was out of the country? Fiona should call a neighbor. She should have left a note for Claire, clearly marked and taped to the front door. But no, she was being ridiculous. Why would Claire choose that exact moment to come home? Fiona hadn’t felt this urgency a month ago; it was only the video that had made everything seem so immediate. She hadn’t left town since Claire went missing, but she’d been gone all day plenty of times, and some nights, when she stayed over at a date’s house or, once, crashed at a downtown hotel for a wedding. And the world hadn’t fallen apart any further than it already had.
Their food had arrived, and Arnaud gestured with chopsticks. “I can—for a little extra money—I can gain entry to the flat. Maybe find some more information.”
“Like, pick the lock?” There was avocado roll in front of her, and she was so hungry she went for it with her fingers.
He laughed. “No, like bribe the landlord.”
“Why not just approach Kurt?”
“Because if he doesn’t cooperate—then we’re through. But if we look around first, then we know more, and we can still talk to him later. This neighborhood, I’m sure we can bribe our way in. It’s not kosher, you understand? This is why the extra money. I’m not trying to rip you off, but for something like this, a little extra. Just one hundred euro.”
“I understand.”
“Plus the cost of the bribe. So one-fifty.”