“What? Who is this?”
“It’s Florence Darrow.”
“Ah. I was about to call you.”
“Helen came back. The real Helen. She was here. She killed a friend of mine. She killed Nick. Please, you have to help me.”
“Slow down, slow down. Start again.”
Florence took a breath. “Helen came back last night. My boss, Helen Wilcox, the one whose passport you have. And she killed someone. She killed Nick.” Florence’s voice broke. She remembered him in the kaftan and turban in the souk, smiling and blushing. He was only twenty-four. What had she done? Florence didn’t even know whether she meant Helen or herself.
“Nick who?”
“Nick. Nick.” She didn’t even know his last name. “He’s in the pool.”
“Ms. Wilcox, I want you to listen very closely, okay? I’m going to come back to your house, but it’s going to take me a few hours to get there. I’m also going to call Officer Idrissi and see if he can get there sooner. But I want you to know that I spoke to Florence earlier today.”
“What?”
“She told me a little bit about what’s been going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“She said you’ve been floating some crazy ideas. Suicide. Fleeing from the law. She said you’ve been drinking a lot, that you’d gotten your hands on some illegal narcotics. She even said you offered her ten thousand dollars for her passport.”
“No, that was Helen. She took your card. She took it.”
“We’re all here to help you, okay. We’re all on your side. Let’s just calm down for a moment. I’m going to leave my office now. It’ll take me about five hours. I’ll call Idrissi as soon as I hang up. If I can reach him, he should be able to be there in twenty, twenty-five minutes, okay? I’ll be there soon too. Just sit tight and don’t do anything rash.”
“Okay,” Florence said. “But hurry.”
When she hung up, her adrenaline receded like the ebbing of the tide. The world slowed down. She saw herself as Amira saw her. Standing in a puddle of dirty water. No pants on. Clutching a laptop to her chest, the charging cord trailing loosely on the ground.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Amira. “I’m sorry.”
Florence walked upstairs. She was wet and shivering. There was algae hanging from her hair and eyelashes.
Idrissi would be here soon, she repeated like a mantra in her head. She never thought she’d be so grateful for his presence.
She went into her own bathroom for the first time since the accident and locked the door behind her. She let the shower run until it was scalding, then stepped into the stream. She didn’t bother to hold her cast outside of it this time. It was already soaked.
Idrissi would come. Massey would come. Eventually she would get them to see the truth. Whitney could sign an affidavit. She could fly her mother over. There was no way they’d actually put her in jail as Helen Wilcox. She just needed to be patient. Calm and patient.
She stepped out of the shower and was toweling off when she heard someone rap gently on the door.
“Florence?” Helen said lightly.
Florence froze. “Just a second!”
“Everything okay in there?”
“Yes, everything’s fine.”
“Amina put out lunch. Get dressed and come eat.”
“Okay. Just give me a second.”
Florence listened to Helen walk away. She rubbed the towel on her face vigorously. She pulled on some clothes and looked out the bedroom window, which faced the driveway. There was no sign of Idrissi yet. But she couldn’t hide in the bathroom all day. Her one advantage was that Helen didn’t suspect that she suspected anything.
Downstairs, she heard Helen talking to Amira on the terrace. Helen’s purse was sitting on the table by the front door. Florence glanced out the door to the terrace and moved quickly toward the table. Inside was a US passport. She pulled it out and opened it.
It was her passport. Of course it was. There was her full name, Florence Margaret Darrow and her date of birth as she’d seen it listed officially countless times in her life. But next to it was a photograph of Helen Wilcox.
She slipped the passport into her back pocket.
How had Helen done that? Is that what she had been doing in Rabat? Florence knew from her own research that all Helen would have needed was a photocopy of Florence’s passport and her driver’s license. That and new photos.
Outside, Helen sat at the table in the shade where Amira had set up lunch. She pulled a grape off the stem and popped it into her mouth jauntily.
“Nice shower?”
“Yes. Thanks. How was town?”
“It was fine. I ran into some of your friends. Meg and that guy Nick, I think?”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Florence sat and raised the glass of juice at her place to her mouth before realizing it had been sitting on the table alone with Helen before she arrived. She faked a sip then put it back down. She felt nauseous. She couldn’t eat. She noticed that her hand was shaking. She shoved it under the table. Where was Idrissi?
She didn’t even know if Massey had reached him yet.
“You look pale,” Helen said.
“I’m a little hungover.”
Florence watched Helen butter and eat a piece of bread. She pulled back her lips into a grimace with each bite to avoid smudging her lipstick. A murderer. She was eating lunch with a murderer. She’d killed two people: Jenny and Nick. Ellis Weymouth too, probably—the man Jenny had served fifteen years in prison for murdering. What was more likely: that two young girls, best friends, both grow up to be homicidal, or that one of them is a psychopath, sadistic enough to frame the other for her own crime? Certainly someone who had no reservations about taking a life would have no compunction about sending someone to prison. Even her closest friend.
And now she’d stolen Florence’s passport. In order for Helen to use it, of course, the real Florence Darrow needed to be out of the way—for good.
But what could she do besides sit across from Helen and eat lunch as if everything were normal? She couldn’t confront her. Who knew what Helen was capable of? After all, she’d had a gun in Cairo without Florence ever knowing. No, Florence just needed to wait for help to arrive.
Amira came out carrying a platter of chicken salad. She set it down on the table and turned to Florence.
“You had a nice swim?” she asked.
Florence froze. She looked at Helen, who had narrowed her eyes and was staring at her darkly. Neither of them moved. Amira, receiving no answer, returned to the kitchen. Then Helen flexed her right hand and Florence jumped up, kicking her chair to the floor with a loud clatter. She ran inside and raced up the stairs, Helen’s steps pounding behind her.
Florence darted back into her old room, into the bathroom, then spun around and locked the door. She sat down against the door, panting.
A second later, Helen rapped gently against the door.
“Florence,” she sang. She rapped again. “Florence, are you alright?”
Florence jumped up and moved into the bathtub. She pulled up her knees and hugged her legs to her chest.
Helen jiggled the doorknob, tentatively at first, then harder. Finally she heaved her entire body against the door. It was old but the wood was thick and strong. It would hold, Florence thought. The lock—a clunky brass contraption—looked solid too.