said Aimée. “Zazie’s peripheral.”
“Standard procedure, Aimée,” she said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not working that angle, too.” A sigh came over the line. “The team’s fifteen people, specialists all trained in psychology, family dynamics. And trained first as police, for God’s sake. They know the field. Deal with the perverts on a daily basis.”
“No doubt, Suzanne, but they’re playing catch-up. Don’t ask me how but I saw the reports.”
“Good, because I’m tired,” she said. “And it’s too late for me to arrest you tonight.”
“Who do you know who works Vice in the ninth?”
A pause. In the background she heard a child’s voice. “Maman, I’m thirsty.”
“It’s late,
désolée
,” Aimée said. “But look, you’ve got kids. Help me out here. Zazie’s mother’s frantic. I promised her I’d pursue anything I could. And please don’t tell me Zazie’s a teenager and that’s what they do.”
A little laugh.
“Right now I’d love her to walk in the door and to hear everyone tell me ‘I told you so,’ but
vraiment
, Suzanne, if Zazie hasn’t returned by now, in my gut I know it’s because she can’t.”
“Hold on, Aimée,” she said. “Let me see what I can find. Vice assignments changed. Let me check on a
mec
I know.”
A moment later Aimée heard water splashing, little footsteps. “
Ma
puce
, back to bed, story in a minute.”
Was that how her life would turn out? A crying baby in the night, a toddler and playdates in the park, then down the road a headstrong teenager?
She envisioned a hazy future—her trying to run a business orchestrated around this little Bump. Would there be enough Dior concealer in Paris to blot out the dark shadows under her eyes?
She heard Suzanne come back on the line.
“How do you do it all, Suzanne? Work, kids, keep a relationship?”
“Do it all?” Suzanne snorted. “Why would anyone do it all unless they had to? Being a parent today comes with built-in worries: vaccinations, the right school, doing enough or not enough, giving up your career or your time with your child … I’m so sick of my friends debating this guilt in the sandbox all the time.”
Aimée thought of the mothers chatting over pastel macaroons in the Jardin du Luxembourg—it looked idyllic until it erupted in sand-throwing.
“You just do it, because that’s how things work. It’s what we’ve always done,” Suzanne was saying. “Think about it—our mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers raised families while helping on the farm or in the shop,
non
? They did what they could with one, two or ten children, and everyone survived. Mostly.” She paused. “Think about your mother. You turned out all right, right?”
Because she had her father and grandfather.
“Does this mean you and Melac might …?” Suzanne hesitated.
“Look, it’s late. I’ll let you go. But did you find that name in Vice?” she said quickly, afraid she’d blurt everything out—Melac’s departure, her fears, how she’d avoided returning his calls, how uncharted this all felt. No one to guide her. If only her mother …
Crazy to want help from a woman who left her when she was eight years old.
“Tell Beto I know you, that’s important,” Suzanne said, and gave Aimée his number. “Call him suspicious, but it’s kept him alive. Counterterrorism background. He owes me.”
Aimée’s knuckles whitened on the phone. “
Attends
, you and Melac worked counterterrorism?”
“Can’t speak to that, but Beto’s cover was blown, so he’s undercover Vice. Got the nickname after his course at Quantico—some Brazilian Ponzi-scheme strategy.”
“
Merci
, Suzanne,” she said.
“My life’s a balancing act, Aimée,” she said, her voice blurred with tiredness. “We make it work. Thank God my husband’s mother and my sister help out, or I’d jump off the Pont Neuf.” A pause. “But I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything else in the
“Standard procedure, Aimée,” she said. “Doesn’t mean they’re not working that angle, too.” A sigh came over the line. “The team’s fifteen people, specialists all trained in psychology, family dynamics. And trained first as police, for God’s sake. They know the field. Deal with the perverts on a daily basis.”
“No doubt, Suzanne, but they’re playing catch-up. Don’t ask me how but I saw the reports.”
“Good, because I’m tired,” she said. “And it’s too late for me to arrest you tonight.”
“Who do you know who works Vice in the ninth?”
A pause. In the background she heard a child’s voice. “Maman, I’m thirsty.”
“It’s late,
désolée
,” Aimée said. “But look, you’ve got kids. Help me out here. Zazie’s mother’s frantic. I promised her I’d pursue anything I could. And please don’t tell me Zazie’s a teenager and that’s what they do.”
A little laugh.
“Right now I’d love her to walk in the door and to hear everyone tell me ‘I told you so,’ but
vraiment
, Suzanne, if Zazie hasn’t returned by now, in my gut I know it’s because she can’t.”
“Hold on, Aimée,” she said. “Let me see what I can find. Vice assignments changed. Let me check on a
mec
I know.”
A moment later Aimée heard water splashing, little footsteps. “
Ma
puce
, back to bed, story in a minute.”
Was that how her life would turn out? A crying baby in the night, a toddler and playdates in the park, then down the road a headstrong teenager?
She envisioned a hazy future—her trying to run a business orchestrated around this little Bump. Would there be enough Dior concealer in Paris to blot out the dark shadows under her eyes?
She heard Suzanne come back on the line.
“How do you do it all, Suzanne? Work, kids, keep a relationship?”
“Do it all?” Suzanne snorted. “Why would anyone do it all unless they had to? Being a parent today comes with built-in worries: vaccinations, the right school, doing enough or not enough, giving up your career or your time with your child … I’m so sick of my friends debating this guilt in the sandbox all the time.”
Aimée thought of the mothers chatting over pastel macaroons in the Jardin du Luxembourg—it looked idyllic until it erupted in sand-throwing.
“You just do it, because that’s how things work. It’s what we’ve always done,” Suzanne was saying. “Think about it—our mothers, grandmothers and great-grandmothers raised families while helping on the farm or in the shop,
non
? They did what they could with one, two or ten children, and everyone survived. Mostly.” She paused. “Think about your mother. You turned out all right, right?”
Because she had her father and grandfather.
“Does this mean you and Melac might …?” Suzanne hesitated.
“Look, it’s late. I’ll let you go. But did you find that name in Vice?” she said quickly, afraid she’d blurt everything out—Melac’s departure, her fears, how she’d avoided returning his calls, how uncharted this all felt. No one to guide her. If only her mother …
Crazy to want help from a woman who left her when she was eight years old.
“Tell Beto I know you, that’s important,” Suzanne said, and gave Aimée his number. “Call him suspicious, but it’s kept him alive. Counterterrorism background. He owes me.”
Aimée’s knuckles whitened on the phone. “
Attends
, you and Melac worked counterterrorism?”
“Can’t speak to that, but Beto’s cover was blown, so he’s undercover Vice. Got the nickname after his course at Quantico—some Brazilian Ponzi-scheme strategy.”
“
Merci
, Suzanne,” she said.
“My life’s a balancing act, Aimée,” she said, her voice blurred with tiredness. “We make it work. Thank God my husband’s mother and my sister help out, or I’d jump off the Pont Neuf.” A pause. “But I wouldn’t trade what I have for anything else in the
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