“It’s the right thing to do,” he said quietly. “Not just for you, but for Aurelia, too.” He hesitated. “For Amandine.”

When Emily didn’t respond, he began to speak quickly and eloquently, ticking off points on his fingers. Aurelia Denny had a good life, he insisted. She remembered nothing of where she came from, of what had happened; Nina was the only mother she knew, and she had everything a little girl could want. She was well-protected and fiercely loved. She was fed, clothed, and educated. And when the time came, Scott promised, she would also be free. She would not spend the rest of her life held captive at Querencia. One way or the other, he would return Amandine Tessier to the real world—but as rich and privileged Aurelia Denny.

“She’ll be recognized,” Emily managed.

“No,” Scott shot back. “She’ll be conditioned to believe in her illness. She’ll always keep herself covered up. She’ll always wear those contacts.”

And for the first time, Emily questioned Scott’s sanity. They’re both deluding themselves, Emily thought. There was no way an adult Aurelia would fail to figure out that her condition was a lie.

Scott must have sensed her doubt. “Consider the alternative,” he said. “Short-term, I mean. She’d be taken to some white-walled clinic to be poked and prodded. She’d have to give statements. She’d be ripped from her home for the second time in her short life, separated from her parents and handed her over to strangers—but this time, she would see everything, remember everything. And she would carry it with her for the rest of her life.” He wiped his eyes. “Don’t do that to her, Emily. Don’t do it to Nina. They don’t deserve any more pain. I would have thought you of all people would understand that.”

Me of all people, Emily thought. What’s that supposed to mean?

But she wasn’t given any further chance to ponder it. Scott had plowed on with his argument and, to be fair, he made a good case. Emily couldn’t imagine Aurelia in the arms of anyone else. She couldn’t bear the thought of her being led into an unfamiliar house where she would be given strange food, strange clothes, and a strange bed. Who was her birth mother, anyway? What kind of person was she? How would she care for Aurelia? How would she speak to her? In French, that’s how. Amandine Tessier might have spoken French, but Aurelia Denny had barely heard a word spoken in three years.

Emily shook her head. “Nina will find me.”

“No. She won’t even look.”

No, of course Nina would not look for her. Nina thought she was dead. Nina thought Scott had shot, killed, and buried her in the woods.

Emily spun around and vomited. When she was done, she wiped her mouth and nodded her assent. Yes. I will keep your secret. Cross my heart and hope to die. Here, let me help you dig a fake grave. Do you have an extra shovel?

Scott told her to keep the credit card and promised an initial lump sum deposited into her own bank account within the next two to three business days. Providing Emily adhered to the conditions, the rest would follow at regular intervals. He smiled, a well-oiled nod. A pleasure doing business with you.

Then he stomped off through the trees to gather a number of large rocks. He threw them into the hole and covered them with a blanket pulled from the back of the Land Cruiser. “In case she gets curious,” he explained.

Emily threw up again.

After he filled the hole in, Scott drove her to La Rochelle. Neither of them said a word the entire way.

* * *

They pulled up next to a bus shelter near the harbor. A thin line of light was just beginning to appear on the horizon.

“Go to the Sinclair Hotel in Covent Garden,” he said. “They’ll have a room ready for you.” Reaching behind him, he pulled his suit jacket from the backseat and draped it over her shoulders. “Wait for me there. I’ll come in a few days. We can talk some more.”

Emily tried to picture herself in a hotel suite, but she’d been so immersed in Querencia for so long, so consumed by it, that she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. She thought about her first glimpse of the estate and how happy she’d been, how grateful that life had finally thrown her a bone.

As the first rays of the sun broke over the water, Scott turned to her. “Please,” he whispered, “think carefully about everything I’ve said.” The moment felt significant, but Emily had nothing to say. Her fear and rage had dissolved, leaving her feeling hollowed out.

She took one last good look at him, pocketing details like souvenirs. The freckle just above his right eyebrow, the neat cluster of hairs below his lower lip, his fingernails, now bitten and dirty, his eyes, red-rimmed with fatigue.

Finally, she opened the door and stepped onto the pavement. Tugging Scott’s jacket around her bare shoulders, she looked back, and an absurd, babyish thought flew out of her heart: please don’t leave me.

“I was right,” Scott said with a small smile. “You really were perfect. For all of us.” Then he pulled the door shut and drove away.

* * *

It was such a relief to be back among familiar surrounding that she nearly kissed the filthy London street. The traffic, the fumes, all the angry people; nothing on earth could’ve been more welcome.

Hobbling into the lobby of the Sinclair, she ignored all the curious stares and successfully checked in. She didn’t last, though. Wrapped in a towel after taking a long, hot shower, she lay on the ridiculously huge bed, bawling into the pillows. Her wails bounced off the textured wallpaper and disappeared in the folds of the curtains. A marble bust of a topless woman observed her with smooth cloudy eyes.

Wait for me. I’ll come in a few days.

Emily imagined Scott opening the door and walking in. Champagne, strawberries. Dinner somewhere nice. How long did he plan to hide her at the hotel? Forever?

After two solid hours of crying, Emily got to her feet, blew her nose, and slung her mud-streaked bag over her shoulder. Throwing Scott’s jacket onto the bed, she checked out, then made her way to St. Pancras Station, where she caught the first train going north.

* * *

The taxi pulled up outside a semidetached sandstone house with a red door, and Emily’s bottom lip trembled at the sight of the brightly lit windows. They were home, just as she knew they would be. Wednesday was Grand Designs and an early night, regular as clockwork.

She handed Scott’s card over and watched as the driver tapped it against the machine. It beeped. Payment processed. The cabbie raised his eyebrows. Emily couldn’t blame him for being surprised; she’d cleaned up her wounds as best she could but she still looked like hell.

She was crying even before her mother opened the door.

Juliet gasped. “Oh my god, where have you been? How did you get here?” She pulled Emily into a tight embrace. “You should have called!”

At what point should I have called? Emily thought, her old hackles rising like an allergic reaction. When I was trapped in the car, being shot at in the woods, or digging my own grave?

“Oh goodness, are you bleeding?”

Emily glanced down as Juliet grabbed hold of her lacerated shoulder.

“Let me look at that.” Peter appeared from behind Juliet’s shoulder, peering through his tortoiseshell bifocals. He took a handkerchief from his pocket—Peter was the only person alive who still used a handkerchief—and dabbed at the wound, making Emily feel about seven years old.

Straightening up, he breathed a heavy, malty sigh. “What’s going on, Emmy?”

Emily opened her mouth. I nearly died, she almost said. But those words had no place here in this house, in this shrine to the ordinary.

Her parents smelled of milk and cookies. The smell of cinnamon wafted from the kitchen, and Kevin McCloud delivered his final thoughts from the living room.

It doesn’t matter, she thought. None of it matters. I’m home.

* * *

In the days that followed, Juliet treated Emily like a sick patient, and Emily was happy to be mollycoddled. She offered no explanation for her sudden reappearance, but, in true Proudman fashion, no one asked. Juliet and Peter just tiptoed around her and made more tea, and for once in her life, Emily was grateful for their inability to communicate.

She slept a lot: shallow, fitful naps full of sinister dreams. For three nights running, she woke up drenched in sweat, convinced someone was trying to break into the house.

She cried every day. There was an empty, sick feeling under her ribs, like she hadn’t eaten for weeks, but which wouldn’t go away no matter how much she ate.

She watched a lot of TV. She crawled into bed and vowed never to leave.

After a few days, however, she ventured outside, taking short trips to the local shops, or walks with Juliet to the park. But every time she left the house, she felt sick. She saw Scott everywhere: driving cars, picking up dry cleaning, waiting in line at the butcher’s. What would he do when he discovered she was no longer at the Sinclair? Did he already know? He would contact her; she was sure of it. But when? And how?