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"Mon Dieu," he says, to nobody at all. "I have never once seen her do that."

"No," I say. "Neither have I."

Behind me, Wes has started screaming again. I'd almost forgotten him, which tells you what kind of day it's been. I stop at the door.

"Rafe. Not in this room. It's booked at ten." I think about it. I'm bleeding, I've got a scalpel wound and a dinner reservation. Then of course the woman down the hall who’s deciding whether to stitch me or finish the job. All of this and I find I don't have the appetite for the rest of Wes tonight. "Actually, no. This room must be cleaned. Patch his hand and put him in a car. Drive him home to his wife. I’m feeling slightly magnanimous." I grunt. “Also the blue room will do for the booking. Have cleanup come to get this mess sorted. Carpet replaced.”

Wes is crying in relief.

"Back to him. Take him out to the usual place in the morning, once she's had a night with him. Do it clean, so there's a face left for the service. I'll handle the box myself."

Of course Wes starts begging again, but I've had enough of him.

Down the corridor, a drawer opens and slams shut hard enough to rattle.

She's found the lidocaine.

CHAPTER 10

Manon

Seven days after I threw a scalpel at my new fiancé, I drive to Charles's building in the late evening after a shift to close that chapter for good. I took a shower and changed at the hospital, then went ahead and informed Laszlo I have to return some items to Charles. Besides, I owe him a proper, final goodbye. Yes, I’ve technically already done that, but the man keeps calling me and I keep not picking up. It’s time to lay the past to rest once and for all.

I texted Laszlo so I didn’t have to deal with pushback. Don’t kill him, I said at the end. Promise me. Won’t be a next time.

His response came a full five seconds later, at least: Ok.

I spent an hour last night putting a box together with gifts Charles has given me. Considering the situation, I don’t feel I should keep them. A scarf, a pendant with his initials engraved in the back, custom team memorabilia. All I've got now is a request that sounds like please go away because this is happening and I need you safe, far from me. I do not know what else I can do to make him understand that he needs to stop trying to contact me.

He opens the door in a T-shirt with a bag of frozen peas on his shoulder. New injury? Maybe, but it's no longer my business to know.

"You've been ignoring me."

"I've been working. And you weren’t supposed to call."

"Sure." He steps back to let me in. I hand him the box and he puts it on a side table. He can see what’s in it but says nothing.

There's a scar through his eyebrow where the butterfly stitch was, healed crooked, exactly the way I told him it would.

I keep my coat on, because this needs to be brief.

"I want you to let me go."

He puts the peas down in the sink and shakes his head. As the scent of his cologne travels to me, I want to run my hand over his chest, maybe more out of pity than desire though, which shocks me. Damn it, why does this have to be so difficult?

"On your off time go to your mother's in Montreal. You can sit that out." I point to his shoulder. "Nobody would find that strange." My voice is holding up and I'm quite proud of it. "Don't post anything. Don't tell me where you are, and don't tell anyone who might tell me."

"And then?"

"And then I don't know."

This whole thing has been weighing me down for days, and the speech takes barely a minute.

"No," he says.

"Charles—"

"No, Manon." He seems strangely calm. "I'm not sitting at my mother's so you can go and be somebody's wife with a clear conscience. You want me out of your way." He shrugs. "This is not about me being safe. You're asking me to make it easier. I don't want that."