growing up here in Paris, living a very different life from the one he lived. I can tell him some things about New York. I can tell him about boyfriends and school.
But I can’t tell him everything.
If he knew what happened, how I really felt about his father, Pascal would see through me, see through this whole thing. He’s smart enough to figure out the truth right away.
The truth of why I really came back.
Not just for my mother.
I came back to kill his father.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PASCAL
I can’t remember the last time I was nervous (oh yes, it was when Blaise had a gun to my head during a rather intense workplace negotiation), but I’m feeling it as I dial Olivier’s phone number.
Get over yourself, you prick, I scold myself.
I’m not even sure if it’s still his number. He’s been in California for the last year with his fiancée, Sadie; he probably has an American number now. My mother and father haven’t kept tabs on him, or at least, my father hasn’t talked about it. I have no doubt he knows exactly where Olivier is at any given moment, but if I were to ask for his information, my father would wonder why, and I don’t want to get into it.
I also know that it ended on very bad terms between us, which isn’t a surprise at all and was entirely my doing. I did threaten his girlfriend and her mother. I also threatened him. Some stalking was involved. I may have recorded them having sex as a way of extortion. And then there were all the years of blackmailing before then.
Suffice to say, I’m expecting Olivier to hang up on me.
The phone rings and rings, and I’m starting to think that either he’s not around, or maybe he’s sleeping, or even his number did change. It’s Tuesday evening here; I haven’t a clue off the top of my head what time it is in California.
“Hello?” a woman’s voice answers in English, a thick American west coast accent.
“Hello,” I say, trying to make my voice warm and my English as fluent as possible. “Is Olivier there?”
There’s a pause and then a muffled sound as if she’s holding the phone away from her. “Who is this?”
“I need to speak with Olivier,” I say and then revert back into old ways. “I promise you it’s nothing bad, Sadie. I just have some questions.”
A heavy pause. “Pascal?”
“Ah, I’m flattered you remember who I am.”
“Fuck you, you piece of shit.”
Well, I suppose I deserve that.
“I understand I’m probably not the most popular person right now or any time, but if you could be a dear and hand the phone to Olivier, that would be great.”
“I’m going to hang up,” she threatens.
“Who are you talking to?” I hear Olivier’s voice floating in the background.
Sadie sighs angrily and says to him, “You’ll never believe it. It’s Pascal.”
She says my name as if I were the devil himself.
“What?” he asks, and then there’s another muffled sound.
“Pascal?” he asks into the phone.
“Bonjour, cousin,” I tell him, switching to French. “How are you?”
“How am I?” he repeats both in English and in disbelief.
He doesn’t take the bait. As far as I know, Sadie doesn’t speak French (though maybe she does at this point), and our conversation in French would have been private.
“It’s a question,” I tell him with a sigh. “You don’t have to answer it.”
“Why are you calling me?” His voice is on edge. Guess I can’t blame him.
“I just have some questions for you, and then I’ll leave you alone.” Though even this far into our conversation, I’m getting the feeling that Olivier didn’t send the letters. He had as much reason to believe that his father’s death wasn’t an accident as his siblings, but he never pursued it the way Seraphine did.
“What is it?” he asks testily. “I’m rather busy. We’re late for lunch.”
“Ah, well, I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”
“You wouldn’t have given a shit.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“Wait, wait,” I tell him, wishing I knew how to play nice. He is family in the end, even if I’ve ostracized him and everyone else. “Just give me a second.”
I hear an impatient huff of air. “What. Is. It?”
“Have you sent me any letters lately? Or should I say, have you gotten anyone to send me letters?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
I take that as a no.
I lick my lips, trying to put this in the right terms. “I think someone’s blackmailing me.”