The American Girl (20 page)

AUGUST 7, 2015

O
utside the green curtains of my cubicle I could hear Valentin's Italian shoe leather squeaking on the hospital linoleum. The nurse was taking my blood, checking for something or other I didn't understand because everyone kept gabbing away in really fast French and/or running around like headless chickens. The nice boys from the Charente-Maritime volunteer Cave Rescue Team who found us were still hanging around in the waiting room, poking their heads around occasionally to see how I was. There was altogether too much concern for my welfare. I wasn't used to it. The nurse drew the needle out and handed me a cotton wool ball to hold over it. Valentin poked his head through the curtains, looking stressed, then disappeared.

“Don't you have some paperwork to do?” I asked irritably.

He poked his head in again. “Say something,
chérie
?” He looked so anxious.

I tried to sound a bit gentler. “It's just . . . you're pacing
around like an expectant father and you must have stuff to do. How's Quinn? How's Noémie? Have you found the others yet?”

He frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then turned to the nurse and asked her to kindly leave us.

Perched on the edge of the bed, I felt my skin prickle, the bad vibes coming off Valentin mixing with the painkillers and adrenaline in my system. For the first time since the caves, I started to shiver. “Valentin, what's going on?”

He pulled the curtain closed and came to me, putting his arms around me and kissing the top of my head. “
Dieu merci!
I'm so glad nothing happened to you . . . nothing worse. I don't know what I would have done.”

In spite of my wholehearted cynicism about love, I let him kiss me. It calmed me a little, and I remembered reading somewhere that male pit sweat has a more relaxing effect on women than Xanax. Bring it on.

After a while, he held me at arm's length, checking out the dressings on all my little cuts and scrapes. “That cave has chewed you.”

I rolled my eyes. “It's nothing. I don't know why they won't let me go and check on Quinn.”

He looked away. “Quinn is helping some colleagues of mine with their inquiries and there's a lot to get through. I mean, she's remembered things, important things, and we need a full statement.”

I pushed him away. “You mean they're questioning her.”

“I don't really know,” he said wearily. “My colleagues are handling it.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding not to push him too much just yet. “How about Noémie? I mean, she seemed in pretty bad shape.”

His body sagged a bit. “They had to sedate her. One of her ankles is badly sprained, which is why she could not move from there. She was—”

“Hysterical.” Closing my eyes, I remembered the way she screamed.

“She's been saying a lot of things, but she is not in a state to respond to questions about the rest of her family. The doctors had to calm her in order to treat her.”

I nodded, trying to take it all in. “Are they searching the caves for the others?”

“Yes.” His face was grim.

“They could be in different chambers further on. I mean—that place is vast. It's so easy to get lost in it.” A shiver ran through me.

He took my wrists and kissed them. “I'm so glad you are not lost, Molly. Truly you have been brave. If you had not gone after your niece, if you had not found Noémie, they might both be dead.”

I shrugged. “It was the Cave Rescue guys really. I know Bill called them, but they did well to find us. It was weird, though. The second they got us out, we were separated . . .” I looked at him, hoping for an answer to my implied question and feeling all the while a twinge in the pit of my stomach about how Bill's call could have blown my cover.

He just nodded absently, stroking his thumb over the edges of a sticky dressing on my arm. “How did you get that one?”

“Scraped it on some rocks when my hips were stuck in a fucking tunnel. I'm not a whip-thin teen with Mick Jagger hips, you know,” I said, going for a laugh.

“Hmm.” He frowned. “Are you sure it is only the cave that has made you hurt? I mean . . . that nothing else has attacked you in the darkness?”

“Attacked me? What, like a cave monster? I've already given my statement . . . this isn't
The Descent
or something.”

His hands tapped nervously at his pockets. “Oh, Molly, I don't know . . .” He rubbed his nose again.

“I can see you're gasping for a smoke. So am I. Why don't we get out of here?”

He nodded very slowly, as if he'd suddenly started feeling his age.

“Mind going out a minute while I dress?” I gestured to my filthy clothes.

I expected him to make some lecherous comment, but he just nodded slowly again and disappeared through the curtains.

AUGUST 7, 2015

Video Transcript of Police Interview

Here follows the transcript of a police interview with Quincy Jane Perkins, conducted by Detective Inspector Thierry Desjardins (TD) of the Commissariat de police de St. Roch on 7 August, 2015.

TD:
Could you repeat your name for the record?

QP:
Quinn Jane Perkins.

TD:
Do you understand why we are detaining you?

QP:
Am I under arrest?

TD:
No, but we have brought you here to talk to you about the whereabouts of Émilie and Raphael Blavette. We are at present attempting to locate them. As we are interviewing you about their disappearance, I must
caution you, which means you are under no obligation to tell us anything. How do you know the Blavettes?

QP:
I stayed with them here in France.

TD:
As part of a cultural exchange program?

QP:
Yes, I think . . . I can't remember everything before my accident.

TD:
When did you last see the Blavettes?

QP:
I don't know. I can't remember.

TD:
When were you last in their home?

QP:
I don't know. I can remember being there, I think.

TD:
Do you remember where you went on the night of July 27?

QP:
No.

TD:
This would be about ten days ago. Did you go somewhere with Noémie Blavette?

QP:
I can't remember.

TD:
Do you know the causes of the injuries sustained by Noémie Blavette?

QP:
No.

TD:
Did you have a good relationship with Noémie Blavette?

QP:
I think so. I think we're friends.

TD:
Then why did Noémie scream when she saw you in the caves at Les Yeux?

QP:
I don't know. She was scared?

TD:
In response to seeing you?

QP:
No. Maybe. I don't know. Why would she be scared of me?

TD:
Why did you decide to go to Les Yeux tonight?

QP:
I just had . . . a feeling . . . if I went there, I could remember what happened to me there.

TD:
And what did happen?

QP:
I don't remember.

TD:
The video recorded by Meredith Swift suggests that you did.

QP:
Meredith Swift?

TD:
You know her as Molly Perkins.

QP:
My aunt . . . can I see my aunt?

TD:
That's not your aunt. The name of that woman is Meredith Rose Swift, known as Molly. She's a journalist for an internet video channel.

QP:
I don't believe you!

TD:
She's not your friend, Quinn. Have you heard the term
trial by media
?

QP:
Yes. I guess. Why . . . ? Where's Molly?

TD:
Well, that's what is going on here. The media has not been your friend, especially Molly. She has, as you Americans say, hung you out to dry.

JULY 23, 2015

Draft Blog Entry

Well, there were a lot of haters for the last post I put up. I get that that last thing I wrote about Raphael wanting to harm his family seemed extreme and freaked some people out, but he was mad. I'm sure it was only a figure of speech or whatever. Anyway, it doesn't make much difference. I don't have Wi-Fi, so I can't put this stuff online. Not sure I even want anyone to know what's going on. I'm not proud of myself tbh, the way things have gone. I'm only keeping up with this blog in Notes to stay sane. Then if anything happens to me, someone will know what it was. God, just saying that makes me think of those found-footage horror movies where you know the person's dead before they start speaking . . .

A lot has happened since I posted that last entry. For one thing, my brain is fried. Seems Raphael is thinking for both
of us. He keeps telling me to stop worrying because he's made a plan so that we can be together and he keeps telling me what to do. I guess that's good? Everything feels miles from the real world. He says if we're going to make this work, we need to find another place to stay, one that feels safe.

I'm not sure why he thought that place would be the house of Stella Birch, the golden house on the cliff edge overlooking the sea. Maybe because we're already drunk as the bike rumbles along a dirt track, past the spooky trees that lead to Les Yeux, and stops at some secret parking place in the woods behind the fairy tale castle.

Stella answers the door in a tight black dress. She smiles and kisses us on both cheeks three times, the way they do here. Something's off, though.

“God, when I grow up I want to
be
you,” I gush in an effort to be charming. “You look
amazing
.”

Raphael rolls his eyes. “Americans,
hein
. . .”

“Amazing for my age,” she says a little sharply. “Do come in.” She ushers us through the white foyer with its sweep of stone staircase to the elegant living room.

I lean into Raphael, whispering, “Are you sure we're welcome here?”

He grabs me and pulls me out of Stella's sight behind the doorway, one hand clamped over my mouth, the other groping under my T-shirt, fumbling with the button of my jeans.

“I'll make it worthwhile for you,” he says.

“Stop.” I laugh, helpless from all the beer.

“Secretly you want me not to stop,” he whispers.

“Don't,” I say, feeling the moment go too far too fast, like everything we do now, going past the point of no return. “Seriously, she was weird at the door, don't you think?”

“She is always weird.” He shrugs. His teeth graze my neck, sharp as a cat's.

“Stop. We're guests. It's rude.”

“Who gives a fuck?” he whispers. “Prude.”

“I do,” I say weakly.

At that moment, Stella clears her throat and calls from the other room (in her best dowager duchess voice). “Everything all right, you two?”

I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair while Raphael flicks me a disdainful look.

“Chablis?” Stella doesn't wait for a reply. She hands us ice-cold crystal flutes. She's a little starchy compared to the last time I saw her, but I put it down to Émilie kicking me out.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a glass.

“Not a problem, though I wasn't expecting company.” There's something weird in her tone, her eyes. Something indefinably tart, and I can't tell if I'm drunk and paranoid or if she's . . . something . . . scared, maybe? No, that couldn't be.

Meanwhile, Raphael is prowling around the room, his eyes flicking over the delicate Tiffany boxes and small china ornaments scattered around the fireplace. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was casing the joint, but that's ridiculous. I guess Stella thinks so, too, though, 'cause she's following him around the room, eagle-eyed, watching his every move.

I need space, air. I walk outside, lured by the blue light of
the infinity pool. I'm ragged, stumbling against the patio door, righting myself, carrying on along the paved path under the pergola. The air is thick with wisteria scent. I could strip off, go skinny-dipping. “Tragic Blonde Dead in Freak Pool Accident.” I settle for rolling up my jeans and kicking my legs in the water instead, writing notes on my phone now that I have a chance. There's a bug drowning near my left foot. I fish it out and it drags its sodden wings along my toe. I name it Steve. Steve has big bug eyes and has seen better days. He reminds me of me.

A glass of wine is thrust into my hand, a lit joint eased between my lips. Raphael sits down next to me, kisses my neck, and plunges his fully clothed legs into the water. He smiles that wide, stoned, shit-eating grin of his. I don't smile back.

“That bad?” He tries to kiss me. “I made my shoes wet for you and not even a smile.”

I shrug him off, pass him the joint. “I'm just crashing a bit. I guess we forgot to sleep the last couple days.”

“And?” He takes a deep drag and coughs raucously.

“Well, it's been a pretty manic couple of days. I'm tired, y'know.”

“Really?” he says, spluttering, eyes watering.

“Yeah, and I mean . . . maybe we should try and fix things with your mom. I don't like the feeling that your family is mad at you because of me and I seriously don't think we can stay here . . .” I take the joint back, suck on it.

“Don't worry,” he says with a cynical laugh. “This is always coming around every once in a while. Like the cycles of the moon or something. When Noé and I were growing up we had
star charts just so we wouldn't get caught out by one of Maman's hormones.”

“You mean PMS or something?” I pass him back the joint.

He shrugs. “If PMS makes you a psycho.”

I push him so hard he nearly falls into the pool.

Laughing, he grabs hold of me to save himself. “I hit a mark with PMS,
hein
? Lucky I borrowed the Midol out of Stella's medicine cabinet.” He reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out a handful of round yellow pills, grinning wide.

“What the hell? Those aren't Midol. They're OxyContin. Have you stolen those? Have you taken anything else?”

“Maybe.” He swallows two and chases them with Chablis. “Stop stressing. You're just on the downswing. Take these and you will feel better.”

“Um, no. I'm on, like, about twenty different kinds of prescribed medicine, which you've watched me take. That could make me really sick, put me in a coma even. Also, stealing is wrong . . .”

He grabs me and kisses me long and deep. The little pill on his tongue melts in my mouth and swims down my throat and there's nothing I can do about it.

I find myself tumbling into the pool tangled together with him, not feeling the cold of the water, sinking under. We kiss hard. A smoke-trail of blood whispers up. I don't know which one of us is bleeding. I run out of breath and start to panic, clawing my way up. I break the water and gulp for air. He drags me under, kissing me again, tearing at my wet clothes.

The world is blood and blue and chlorine and it flickers.
When he peels my shirt off I whisper, “She'll see us,” but my words are so blurred even I can't translate them. Instead of answering me, Raphael ducks me under the water again, his hands holding my shoulders down. Silver bubbles speed up from my parted lips. The pool water stings my eyes and the cut on my lip. My lungs burn.

His hands slip away and I crash to the surface, coughing chlorine. “What the fuck? That's like what Freddie did to me when you—”
When you met me
, I think.
When you saved me.
Weren't you nicer then?

“Yes, me and Freddie like to play that game sometimes.” He smiles, stroking my cheek. “Don't worry, it's only for fun. Don't you like fun?”

“Yeah, but—” My words blur and die in the night air.

The OxyContin hits too soon. Time speeds up and dilates and speeds again. In one of my moments of clarity, I find myself leaning over the side of the pool, my fingers pressing into the warm concrete.

Raphael is behind me. “I like playing with you, Quinn . . . very much,” he whispers. “Don't you like playing with me?”

An electronic whine cuts through his words. I look up at the wall of the pool house. There, the small metal eye of the security camera follows our every move.

At first I don't know if what I'm seeing is real, or if I'm just tripping. But when I see colored lights flashing against the night and hear the buzz of a police radio, I start to think my most paranoid thoughts might be coming true.