She turned back to Nick. “I have to go,” she said robotically.
“What, right now?”
“I feel sick all of a sudden. Anyway, you should go kiteboarding if you want to.”
“Alright, let’s go. I’ll drive you back.”
She nodded.
On the way to Villa des Grenades, she kept her eyes on the sky. It was a dark granite color, and the clouds churned around each other ominously. She wanted to leave Semat as soon as she could. She had to pack. And book a rental car. And maybe even move up her flight out of Morocco. She had to test out Helen’s passport sooner or later.
Would they put it together if a body washed up? Would Idrissi figure out what had happened?
Of course he would. It was the missing puzzle piece he’d been waiting for. Forensics would show how long the body had been in the water, and perhaps even where it had gone in, based on the tides and where it landed.
Then he’d come knocking on her door.
Nick slowed to a stop in the driveway. She climbed off his bike and stood for a moment looking at him. This was the last time she would see him, she supposed. She wanted to say something to mark the moment, but she didn’t know what.
“See you tonight?” he asked.
She nodded.
And with that unceremonious goodbye, he kicked the gear shift and drove off, raising a hand in salute.
“Be careful,” she called out after he’d already disappeared.
She turned back to the house. The leaves were shivering in the wind, showing their pale, vulnerable undersides. The birds had all disappeared. A few fat drops fell on the stone. She ran inside as the darker spots began to accumulate and the ground turned shiny and black.
She went right to the laptop and checked Helen’s email. Still no response from Greta. Fine. Good. She found a car rental agency in Semat and booked the only SUV they had, something called a Dacia Duster. It could handle bad weather, and it was available immediately. She looked out the window. The rain was thrashing the glass, and thunder shuddered in the distance. A few seconds later, the room was lit up by a flash of lightning. Could she even drive in this? With a cast on her wrist? Well, she’d find out.
She went into the kitchen to call Delta to see if she could change her flight, but when she picked up the phone to dial, she heard a tinny voice shouting from the receiver: “Hello? Is anyone there?”
She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?” Florence realized that she must have picked up before the phone had even begun to ring.
“This is Greta Frost calling for Helen Wilcox.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“Helen?”
Florence paused. “Yes.”
“Helen, I got your email. Could we please talk about this?”
“Okay.”
“Helen?” she asked again.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Or Florence?”
Shit. “Yeah?”
“It’s Florence?”
“Yep.”
“Why did you say you were Helen?”
“What? Sorry, this connection is terrible. There’s an insane storm going on here right now.”
Florence ran her shirt over the phone, trying to create the sound of static.
“Could you please put Helen on the phone?” Greta asked curtly.
“Pardon?”
“I’d like to speak to Helen. Now.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know, actually. She left this morning.”
“Where did she go?”
“I’m not sure.” And then, an idea: “She fired me.”
“She fired you?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Greta paused. “She fired me too.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Yes, that was my reaction too.” Then she asked, “Did she say why?”
“It was sort of convoluted. She kept saying I was on your side, whatever that means. She suspected I was passing information to you.” Florence paused. “Actually, she said that I should just write the sequel to Foxtrot; then you and I would both be happy.”
“What?”
“I mean, she was joking.”
“Obviously.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
“Did she say where she was going?” Greta asked.
“No…just that she needed to go on this journey alone.”
“What journey?”
“It was like an artistic journey, I think? That’s the impression I got. A…creative walkabout, of sorts.”
“Helen said she was going on a creative walkabout?” Greta asked doubtfully.
“Mm-hmm.”
“And did she say where this walkabout was going to take her?”
“I think that’s sort of the thing about walkabouts? They don’t have a destination?”
“Did she seem, I don’t know, in her right mind? This doesn’t sound like the Helen I know.”
“She sounded pretty sure.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Greta said, “Where are you, exactly?”
“What?”
“Remind me of the name of the town you’re in?”
“Why?”
“I’m going to come.”
“Come here? To Morocco?”
“I think I have to. Helen is one of my biggest clients, and frankly I’m worried about her. She hasn’t been herself recently.”
“Greta, I don’t even know where she is.”
“We’ll find her.”
Florence said nothing.
“Florence—don’t worry, we’re going to get everything all sorted out. Helen is volatile, but she always settles down.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Listen, I’m going to get Lauren to book me a flight. You flew into Marrakesh, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then where?”
Florence paused. Then she slowly replaced the phone into its cradle.
It started ringing less than a minute later. Florence just stood there with her hand still on it, not moving, while Amina watched.
“This is why I don’t like talking on the fucking phone!!!” she wanted to scream. A creative walkabout? What the fuck was that? And Greta was coming here? No. No.
She released her frustration in a low, grumbly growl. As she did, the lights flickered and went out. Amina looked at her in alarm as if she’d done it.
37.
As Florence climbed the stairs she realized she was gnawing on her knuckle and abruptly stopped. Helen was right: Panic is a waste of energy.
She had a plan. She was leaving Semat today. She was leaving Morocco as soon as possible. And she was taking over Helen Wilcox’s life. No one was going to stand in her way. Not Officer Idrissi. Not Greta Frost. Not anyone.
Florence started packing. She would have liked to leave all of her old belongings behind, but that would raise questions. It shouldn’t look like two people had arrived at the house and only one had left. Especially if a body washed up. So she packed two bags, one filled with Helen’s things and one with her own. She dragged them one by one down the stairs, ignoring the pain in her wrist.