A few minutes later, Florence settled outside on the terrace with a mug and a brioche. The sky was brightening at a drowsy pace, the palm trees still just outlines against the sky.
Florence considered the one question that had kept her awake far longer than any of the others: Should she turn Helen in?
After all, Helen had killed someone. It had been in self-defense, but that didn’t change the fact that Jenny was dead. Was Florence really willing to risk being charged as an accessory after the fact?
On the other hand, Florence gained nothing by sending Helen to jail. Helen had said she wanted to disappear in a way that left Florence safe and “compensated.” What, in practical terms, had she meant? Florence seemed to be in a position to name her price. Besides, she didn’t like the thought of Helen in prison. It would be like keeping an exotic bird in captivity. A waste.
“You’re sunburned.”
Florence jumped. Helen was standing in the doorway.
Florence drew her hands up to her face.
“You’re all red. I didn’t notice last night. You should take better care of yourself. There’s SPF in my toiletries kit.” Helen sat. “Did you end up getting any sleep?”
“Not really. You?”
“Some. I’m okay, though. Nothing a little coffee won’t cure.”
As if on cue, Amira stepped out onto the terrace with the pot. She greeted Helen placidly, as if she’d always expected her to return. Maybe she had.
When she’d gone back into the house, Helen asked, “What did you tell Amina?”
“Nothing, really. I said you were in Marrakesh.” She realized how odd it was that she’d never explained her injuries or why she was driven back to the villa barefoot by a policeman. “Her name is Amira,” she added, for lack of any other explanation.
“Is it?” Helen asked, uninterested, as she pulled apart a croissant and spread honey on it. “Listen, I have to run into town this morning. When I get back, let’s talk about next steps.”
“What are you doing in town?”
“It’s better that you don’t know.”
“We don’t have a car anymore.”
“I have one.” Helen took a sip of coffee. “By the way, what was the name of the guy from the embassy?”
“Dan something. His card is on the table in the living room. Why?”
“I have a plan. I’m going to take care of a few details, then I’ll tell you everything.” She drank the rest of her coffee in a single gulp and stood up.
“You’re leaving now?” It wasn’t even seven yet.
“The early bird etcetera, etcetera.”
Helen disappeared into the house to get ready.
Half an hour later, she was gone, and Florence was alone again.
She was still sitting there when she heard the phone ring. Amira stuck her head out onto the terrace. “It is Madame Greta again, Madame.”
“Can you tell her I’m not home, please?”
Amira nodded, but reappeared a moment later. “She says if no one talks to her she will call the police.”
Florence knew that if Helen came back to Villa des Grenades and found the police there, she’d never forgive her. And the truth was, Florence wasn’t ready to choose sides yet.
She pushed herself up from the table and followed Amira into the house.
“Hi, Greta,” she said tentatively into the phone.
“Florence? What’s going on? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for over twenty-four hours.”
Florence looked at her watch. “What time is it there?”
“Florence, I’m here. I’m in Marrakesh.”
“What?”
“I’ve been here since yesterday afternoon.”
“Where?”
“At La Mamounia.” Florence recognized the name of the hotel from the research she’d done before booking their trip. It cost over five hundred dollars a night. “Listen, where are you? I don’t know where to come meet you.”
“I’m leaving. I’ll come to you.”
“But what about Helen?”
“I told you—Helen left. She’s not here anymore.” As soon as she told the lie, she realized that she was never going to turn Helen in. Her loyalty would never belong to rule-bound functionaries like Officer Idrissi and Dan Massey. Nor, even, to Greta Frost.
“Do you think she came back here, to Marrakesh?”
“Yes,” Florence said decisively. “Our return flight is on Wednesday. I have no reason to believe that she won’t be on it.”
“Alright. Let’s meet here then. You’re leaving today?”
“As soon as I take care of one or two things.”
“Fine. Let’s plan on getting a drink at my hotel this evening. There’s a nice bar just behind the lobby. I’ll be there at six.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
“Call my cell if anything comes up.”
Florence hung up and wondered whether she would actually go through with the meeting. What would she tell her?
She’d ask Helen. Helen would have a plan. She always did.
44.
Half an hour later, the high-pitched whine of a scooter grew in volume, then abruptly cut off. Florence looked out the window. Meg was climbing off her motorbike in the driveway. Florence went to open the front door.
“Is Nick here?” Meg asked without preamble.
“No, why?”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“He was supposed to meet Liam and Jay to surf this morning, like two hours ago, but no one can get in touch with him. He’s not at their place either.”
“Didn’t he go back with them last night?”
“No, they said he stayed behind.” Meg looked uncomfortable. “He was talking with Florence? I mean, totally platonically or whatever.”
Florence smiled. “That’s okay. He’s allowed to talk to other women.”
“Well, if you hear from him will you let one of us know?”
Florence nodded.
After Meg had left, Florence sat down in the living room. There was an uneasy churning in her gut she could no longer ignore. The coffee had kicked in, and all the questions that she hadn’t been able to formulate the night before bombarded her with insistent clarity.
How had Helen emerged unscathed from the accident? How, exactly, had she swum out of a sinking car? Had she even tried to save Florence? Why couldn’t Florence remember anything from that night? And, while she was at it, why had Helen hired her to transcribe pages from an already published novel?
There had been something off about Helen’s confession. It had been too forthright. Helen was brilliant and engaging and thrilling, but transparent? Sincere? Never.
Unless it wasn’t a confession at all.
And if it was something else, then what was Helen still hiding? If she’d admit to killing her best friend, what deeds were too dark to name?
Florence suddenly had an idea of where to look.
Helen had left her laptop behind at Villa des Grenades after faking her death because nothing could be missing. But why had she brought it to Morocco at all? They already had a computer—the one Florence had been using to type up Helen’s drafts and send her emails.