Part 35 (1/2)

But then she heard his voice, ”Greta?,” faintly, coming from downstairs.

Judging by the echo she guessed that he was in the kitchen - and only one minute away from making his way through the foyer, up the stairs, and into their bedroom. ”My G.o.d!” she gasped, struggling with her robe. ”Hurry! Leave!”

Jean-Pierre had managed to pull on his pants, s.h.i.+rt, jacket.

s.n.a.t.c.hing up his shoes and socks and wrist.w.a.tch, he stepped outside, onto the terrace. She gathered her robe and tied it closed as she rushed from the room.

”Matthew?” she called from the top of the stairs. ”I'm up here,”

she said, composing herself as she descended quickly.

”There you are,” Matthew said, his garment bag and briefcase in tow. He set down the briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and flipped through a few pieces of mail. Yes, she thought thankfully, take your time and read your mail, all of it. ”I came back tonight instead. My meeting was shorter than I'd expected.”

He glanced at her.

As if sensing her scrutiny, he stopped going through the mail. He dropped it next to his briefcase and began climbing the steps.

”Why is it so dark in the house? Are you in bed already?”

She stopped and raised her wrist to her head, fumbling with her words. ”I'm not feeling very well,” she said. She pulled a tattered tissue from her pocket, dabbed it beneath her dry nose, coughed. ”Darling,” she said, blocking his way, ”could you please get me a gla.s.s of water?”

He stopped, eyed her with subdued curiosity. Then he let out an impatient sign and turned and started back down the steps. Just another minute, she thought, and Jean-Pierre would be safely gone.

But then Matthew stopped, turned around, and climbed toward her again. ”There are cups in the bathroom,” he recalled aloud as he pa.s.sed her. She clutched the hem of her robe and lifted it and chased after him in hopes of getting to the bedroom before he did.

She didn't.

He flipped on the light switch, which lit up several lamps in the room all at once, and tripled its brightness. Now everything was fully illuminated, exposed.

She tried to see what Matthew was seeing: The bed was a shambles.

Sheets, pillows, and the comforter strewn across the mattress and onto the floor. The two empty champagne bottles. One on its side.

The bath towel beside the bed. The unlocked terrace door.

He strode past the bed to his walk-in closet and hung up his garment bag, acting as though he did not notice the mess. Pulling his tie from his collar, he caught her earnest reflection in the full-length closet mirror. He turned around to take a closer look at her disheveled appearance, and for a moment his eyes fixed on the empty champagne bottle resting atop the night table. He graced her with a brief, condescending glance, then went back to undressing.

A chilly gust of wind blew open the terrace doors and lifted the curtains. He clucked his tongue as he crossed the room to close the doors.

”Oh” Greta said sharply, coming up quickly behind him. ”I was so hot. I think I have a fever.”

Ignoring her, he pulled the doors shut.

She angled her head to see outside. Jean-Pierre seemed to have gotten away safely.

Matthew twisted the lock and grabbed the curtains and started to slide them together. Suddenly he stopped and crouched a little.

”What's that?” he said, squinting outside.

”What's what, darling?” Greta said, hearing her own voice crack as she rushed to his side.

Matthew stepped out onto the terrace.