Chapter 36
711 Words
Chapter 36It was cold and it was late, but Molly decided to walk home instead of getting the taxi. She smiled at Vincent on her way out, waved at Lawrence who had decided to have one last Negroni, and set off for rue des Chênes and home. The village was quiet. All the shops locked up tight, only a few lights on in houses and apartments along the way. On the edge of the village she could hear the faint sound of pop music coming from somewhere, so faint she could hardly make it out.
The moon was nearly full and she needed no light to see.
Her mind was filled with a jumble of thoughts: how she hoped Dufort would come through with an arrest, because having a sociopath on the loose was less than comforting; how much she loved Castillac and had no regrets about moving there; how the walk to La Baraque seemed farther when the weather was cold.
She turned up her collar and walked faster to warm up. She was on the final bit, a straight stretch of road about fifty yards from her driveway, when the lights of a car appeared behind her.
Her brain paused, but only for a second. And then she flashed on what she had seen but not noticed she had seen. She knew who killed Amy Bennett.
She knew who killed Amy Bennett.
And if she was right, he was on the road behind her. Coming for her.
He knows I know.
She began to run but of course the car was gaining on her. She left the road and pushed her way through Mme Sabourin’s hedge, running without thinking for La Baraque. As she ran she frantically pawed in her bag, searching for her phone, but it was not there. She grasped the mace on her keyring and made sure it pointed in the right direction.
When she got to the wall between her house and Mme Sabourin’s, she bent down and ran hunched over until she reached a large tree covered by an out-of-control climbing hydrangea, and she buried herself among the thick vines, pushing her back up against the trunk of the tree. She was breathing so heavily she thought for certain he would be able to hear her heaving from far away.
Molly watched the car drive slowly down rue des Chênes. He was not rushing. The headlights swung into her driveway as she knew they would, the car creeping along, the slow speed scarier and more disturbing than if he had been speeding. Her breath was not returning to normal and she wondered if she was going to hyperventilate. And why had she not simply rung Mme Sabourin’s doorbell, and called the police from there?
Well, there was no helping that now. She watched him get out of his car and walk up to her door. She had known who it was but still it gave her a shock to see him. She watched him knock, then jiggle the knob.
He saw me run through the hedge, does he think I would be inside now? Waiting for him?
Molly felt a flush of fear run through her body and for a moment she thought she might lose control entirely: her legs were going to give way and she would crumple to the ground, useless to defend herself against this evil man. For a moment she saw Amy’s hand sticking up out of the dirt and she started to lose it.
Calm down, she told herself desperately. You can’t think if you don’t calm down! If he has a flashlight, he’ll spot me in a second, she thought, adrenaline flooding her body again.
I need a plan.
But her brain resisted. Her thoughts were flashing, jagged lights—incoherent and undecipherable. She had never in her life been this frightened.
He began to walk slowly around the side of the house, towards Molly. She sucked in a long breath.
Okay, if he gets any closer, I’ll have to make a break for it.
It had been a long time since Molly had sprinted. Years, probably. But she waited in the shadows of the climbing hydrangea, watching the killer as he tried the front windows of her beloved house, and got mentally prepared to run for her life.
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