For a second, I’m not sure where I am.

What’s happening? What am I doing? What comes next?

The rain hammers on the roof of the Porsche and flows over the slowly fogging windshield.

Road trip.

Yes. That’s right. Now I remember. I’m going on a road trip to a new house. A new life. I will meet my husband there. I will pass through Marseilles. Check out the basilica.

I slide the key into the ignition.

In the backseat, a small whimper.

I feel myself stiffen. A muscle twitches in my cheek.

“Maman?”

My body locks up. I can’t turn around.

Aurelia?

Inhale. Exhale.

I close my eyes.

“Hush, darling,” I say. “Everything’s okay. Mummy’s here. Let’s take you home, alright?”

I start the engine with trembling fingers and turn on the air. The fog on the windshield evaporates almost instantly.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

EMILY

EMILY SAT behind the wheel of the SUV with the engine running, her eyes fixed on the front entrance of a brown building. A set of glass doors slid open and shut, and people went in and out. She chewed her bottom lip, squinting through the rain-spattered windshield.

A man in navy slacks and a light-blue shirt appeared, strolling through the doors toward a car parked at the curb, and Emily sat up straight, her fingers hooked around the door handle. But at the last minute she let go and watched the man drive away, because what was she going to say?

I know where Amandine Tessier is.

She opened her mouth to try the words out, to see what they might sound like, but they caught in her throat like dry crumbs.

“Fuck.” Keeling over, she rammed her head against the steering wheel. What the hell did she think she was doing, sitting outside a police station because of something she saw, or thought she’d seen, on the internet? She might be wrong. She got things wrong all the time.

This is insane, she told herself. You’re insane. What kind of crazy person wades into the ocean, then jumps, dripping wet, into her car only to drive in circles for over an hour, muttering to herself? She’d considered stopping and asking someone for help, but she couldn’t bear the thought of actually speaking to someone, a stranger, a French stranger, who wouldn’t understand what the hell she was talking about. They might think she was drunk or mad; they might call the police to come and arrest her, carry her off to a padded cell as if she was the one who had done something wrong.

Emily couldn’t catch her breath. What if the police did arrest her? What if they assumed she was a coconspirator? What if they put her in a cell and called her parents—or worse, called Nina, who would hide all the evidence and bluff her way out of it, and then what would happen?

But no, no one was getting arrested because she’d probably just made a mistake. That girl in the photo wasn’t Aurelia. No. She’d just been cooped up for too long. She’d taken all the weird stuff that had been happening lately and written herself a little play.

Oh god, I just want to go home, she thought, desperate for the feel of Juliet’s arms around her. Her parents would help. They’d tell her the right thing to do. Emily put one hand on the keys and the other on the gear stick, ready to drive immediately to the nearest airport or, better still, all the way north to Calais, where a sturdy ferry would carry her away over miles of rough gray sea.

But she couldn’t go anywhere. Her passport was sitting in a drawer in her bedroom at Querencia.

So, just go talk to the police, she told herself, switching the engine off. She should just walk in there and tell them what she suspected. Surely they could send a car and take a look around? They could make up an excuse—a “routine check” or something. They wouldn’t find anything anyway, just a normal family minding their own business.

But if Scott and Nina had done something terrible, if that really was Amandine Tessier and she was being held against her will … well, then Emily would have done the right thing. Aurelia—no, Amandine—would be returned to her rightful family, and Nina would …

Go to jail.

Suddenly the full implications hit home. Oh god, Nina, what have you done? And Scott … he’d be convicted, too. Everything he’d worked his whole life to build, everything he’d managed to do, to be, to have: he would lose it all, and he would die in prison because he wouldn’t be able to handle the shame. They’d find him swinging from a noose tied to a light fixture in some squalid little room.

Emily sobbed as the rain outside began to pour. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t betray them; these beautiful, wonderful people who had picked her up and taken her in, who had cared for her like she belonged to them. They were good, they were kind, they were her new home, she loved them—

BANG BANG BANG. A blurry shape hammered on the passenger window. Someone was standing on the pavement, wiping the water off the glass with a black sleeve and peering inside. Emily jumped back in her seat.

“Allo, ca va?” called a woman’s voice.

Tell them. Tell them now.

“Ca va?” the police officer said again.

Tell them.

Emily turned back to the windshield, wavering. And then she saw something. A white utility truck. Just ahead, idling on the corner with its lights on. In the driver’s seat, a dark, hulking shape.

She sat up straight.

“Madame? Puis-je vous aider?”

Emily turned the key in the ignition. Fumbling with the gear stick, she threw the SUV into gear and pulled out sharply into the road, leaving the police officer standing openmouthed in the rain.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

EMILY

EMILY DROVE back to Querencia in a state of panic, talking to herself, arguing with her conscience, veering off the road, and turning the car around only to switch directions again moments later.

Calm down, she told herself. Think.

She’d been convinced that the dark shape sitting in the white truck had been Yves, that he’d followed her there. But that was ridiculous … wasn’t it? She thought about the day she’d seen him at the market. Had he followed her then, too? How many other times had he tailed her on a shopping trip? Every time? Had she never been alone?

Don’t be stupid, this isn’t a spy movie. No one’s “tailing” you, no one’s “after” you. Scott and Nina would never threaten or hurt her, she told herself. But instead of conviction, she felt only uncertainty.

Kicking herself, she considered making another U-turn. She should’ve told the police. Coward.

But it wasn’t really cowardice; neither was it fear. It wasn’t even the confidentiality agreement she’d signed in London, the purpose of which she was only now beginning to understand. No, the reason she hadn’t gone into that police station was that she couldn’t be sure there was anything to tell.

If only she could talk to Scott. He would explain everything. She thought again of her phone, sitting uselessly in the wardrobe.

Unable to bear the clamor of her thoughts any longer, she switched on the local radio and focused on the French, partially translating idiotic conversations about dogs and the state of the roads. Drawing huge, deep breaths into her belly, she took mindful note of her surroundings and relaxed her muscles one by one. She dropped her shoulders and lowered the windows. She visualized her anxiety as a balloon drifting away into the sky, and by the time she reached the turn off for Querencia, her eyes were dry, the rain had eased, and she was convinced she was being irrational. Melodramatic. Paranoid.

The photograph she’d seen on Google couldn’t possibly have been Aurelia. What a silly, silly idea. She must’ve been mad, sitting outside that police station. What had she been thinking? She and Nina would laugh about it later.

You did what? Nina would say.

I know, Emily would reply. How crazy am I?

So crazy!

The craziest!

She was still chuckling as she reached the gates, but her smile died when she remembered having to manually unlock the gates that morning. Silently regarding the keypad, she saw that the red light was blinking once more. Warily, she punched in the code.

Emily blinked as the mechanism immediately hummed into action. The gates took forever to open. The hinges creaked loudly, and the black letters warped as the metal swung away. Inching the car over the sand, she parked in her usual spot in front of the guesthouse. Perhaps it was the weather, but both houses looked dirtier than they had that morning.

She got out and paused, listening for any sound that might tell her where Nina was. Almost exactly as she’d done on her first day, she turned in circles, taking in the neat spiral of the lawn and the paths leading away through the grounds. Other than the sound of softly dripping water, everything was quiet.

They were probably inside, Emily decided. Maybe it was time for a shower. She’d be able to think more clearly after that. She climbed onto the porch of the guesthouse and slipped off her sandals. Pushing open the door, she switched on the hallway light.