“So, you are from where in America?”

Delivered with a thick French accent and a slight quiver, the question comes from the young paralegal clutching his briefcase in my passenger seat. I guess he ain’t too fond of my driving, but I like my driving, especially on a sunny afternoon like this, cruising on a narrow country road to the hot tune of cicadas.

“The South,” I volunteer, barreling past a sign that says 70 kph. My Wrangler’s speedo says 90. Close enough.

Jean-Kevin Bernard—that’s his actual name—sucks in a sharp breath. “Ah, like here. You have the sun and the good life.”

Not sure about the good life, but it’s true that the burnt grass and sparse pines flashing by feel strangely like home. The same dry heat scorches everything under a big, empty blue sky, and here, too, people make their money grow. Back in my little corner of Georgia, it’s mostly cotton and corn; here in Aude, it’s vineyards everywhere you look and, once in a while, the buttery yellow of a canola field. “Yeah, I guess your South and mine have a few things in common.”

“And the accent. You have an accent, right?”

That causes my eyebrows to jolt under my aviators. I didn’t expect him to be able to tell one American accent from another. “You bet I do,” I reply, thickening my drawl for the benefit of my rapt audience of one.

His head bobs as I hit a couple potholes in the road. “Yes, just like us!” Indeed, his southern lilt is on full display, stretching the end of every word to a lazy uh. He studies me with renewed interest. “Mr. Saint-Clair said you speak very well French.”

“Je me débrouille.” I can manage.

All right, I am pretty good at the language of love and socialism—no bragging. I learned seven years ago for a job in Djibouti, which I don’t care to remember too vividly. I was given twelve hours’ notice before being dropped over the Red Sea with a one-page conversation guide tucked into my tactical vest. By the time I touched shore, the only thing I could confidently say was “Bonjour, salut, je suis Virgil.” Good times.

I’ve gotten fluent since, largely thanks to French for Dummies and a few stints in Paris. Even so, some subtleties of the language still elude me, like why French words need so many letters no one bothers to pronounce. To me, that’s the linguistic equivalent of wearing fringe: you’ve got useless letters dangling everywhere and getting caught in your tongue every time you try to say yeux. For the record, it’s pronounced “zee-uh,” and that makes zero fucking sense.

“Ah, we’re almost there.” Jean-Kevin points to our destination: a smattering of sunbaked tiled roofs in the distance. Puigdarcas—yet another French-Occitan name booby-trapped with random letters—boasts 139 souls, a twelfth-century Roman church, and a medieval castle from the same period.

That last item is what we’re here for, by the way.

I can feel my grin stretch wider as I slow down along the village’s narrow main street, a tight row of medieval houses with colorful shutters and wisteria crawling up the walls. This place is so French I expect to grow a beret any moment now.

Jean-Kevin motions to the distant silhouette of a square keep flanked by four turrets as it flashes between two houses. “Ah, you can see the castle already.”

I can, and that simple glimpse awakens the little boy in me. I haven’t been this excited since my big brother got me a PlayStation 2 for Christmas when I was ten. He threw in NASCAR 2001 to top it off, and I damn near shit myself when I opened the box. I ended up with calluses from hammering at that PS2 controller. That used to be my best memory . . . until today.

Drum roll: I, a humble country boy from Georgia, who used to do duster in the back of a banged-up Econoline in Big K’s parking lot, have peaked. At thirty-three—age of the Christ—I’ve actually managed to

• leave Georgia (That alone ain’t no easy feat; last time I checked, some of my high school buds were still in that lot.)
• retire (Injured on duty. Just a scrape.)
• BUY A CASTLE IN FRANCE (with that sweet, sweet retirement bonus) . . . and, wait for it, the goddamn title to go with it. Not too sure about the technicalities: the notary wrote that I’m not allowed to call myself Comte d’Arcas on ID papers or pass on the title to my kids (don’t have any, not planning to), but Saint-Clair—The notary who handled the whole deal—said anything else is fair game. Which means that Monsieur le Comte will soon be cruising along the French Riviera, drinking rosé straight from the box on pristine beaches, and banging rich and emotionally insecure women—I’m a simple man with simple needs.

I shake off a giddy sigh as I hit the gas again. We’re almost there, and I’m counting the seconds until I snatch the keys from Jean-Kevin and start planning where I’ll dig my pool.

“Take a left on Route de Lérins,” Jean-Kevin quips, parroting my GPS.

The wheel is already spinning in my hands when the door of a bakery on the street corner bursts open. A plump brunette in a pink apron dashes out . . . and onto the road. The Jeep’s tires screech as I hit the brakes, or maybe that high-pitched squawk was Jean-Kevin’s. A couple of seconds pass while the woman I nearly killed and I gauge each other through the windshield. Late thirties, Mediterranean features. No visible weapon, but she’s holding a bag of cookies or something. She flips a black snake of a braid over her shoulder and marches to my side of the vehicle.

I roll down my window to ask what the hell her problem is, but she strikes first, with the kind of accent you hear on the other side of the Mediterranean from Marrakech to Tunis. “C’est toi le nouveau comte?” Are you the new count?

Damn, news travels fast around here. I lower my sunglasses to give her my best blue-eyed asshole grin—was never as blond, as tall, or as jacked as my brother, but there’s one thing I’ve got going for me: a mug shot most women like. “Indeed, ma’am. People call me Virgil,” I reply in my most polished French.

“Don’t call me ma’am. The name’s Khadidja.” The mug-shot thing worked: a good-natured smile softens her gaze as she shoves her bag of treats into my lap, along with a pink business card. I pick up a whiff of frying oil and orange blossom from the sticky diamond-shaped pastries. Makrut. I haven’t had good ones since a job in Algiers a couple of years ago. “You’re gonna need something to help up there,” Khadidja adds ominously.

Not sure what to make of that last part, so I just say, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

I pop a makrut into my mouth and hand the bag to Jean-Kevin, who’s turned the same gray as his suit. He digs in nonetheless and nods in appreciation. He’s right, they’re perfect: pure honey and diabetes ooze out from every bite, and they’ve got that elusive flavor that reminds me of my gram’s fried peach pies—the trick is to always reuse the frying oil.

Meanwhile, Khadidja casually reaches to pat the business card that’s now resting in my shirt’s breast pocket. “I do French and Algerian pastries, bread, and sandwiches. I also do catering for weddings. You call: my husband delivers.”

I glance at the red storefront behind her and the sign above it that reads La Mie d’Oran. “I’ll make sure to remember it.”

Her intense black gaze darkens once more as she steps away from the Jeep with a final flip of her braid. “Good luck.”

Is it me, or is this starting to seem like a Scooby-Doo episode? Next to me, Jean-Kevin is still tearing his way through my bag of makrut in awkward silence while I put the Jeep in gear. We leave the last houses behind us as we drive up the hill that overlooks Puigdarcas. “What did she mean by that?”

His answering shrug is a poor attempt at casual. “It’s a big property. There’s a lot of work to maintain it, I guess.”

Right. I’m not sure I’m satisfied with that answer, but Château d’Arcas bursts into view the moment we clear the top of the hill, and its medieval glory shushes the warning bells at the back of my head. Now that’s what I call a bachelor pad, with its low ramparts cinching a one-hundred-foot-tall keep studded with arrow slits. Actual arrow slits. Will I test them? Absolutely: I’ve got a sick 505 FPS crossbow waiting in my trunk just for that.

I’m still grinning stupidly and rapping my fingers on the wheel as I turn onto the trail leading up to the castle. The keep dominates the hill, overlooking a three-story tower house surrounded by ramparts. A twenty-foot-tall gate leads into what is now my courtyard.

Now I’m not exactly a medieval history buff—I mean, I cleared high school, and I rewatched Kingdom of Heaven and Just Visiting to give myself a few pointers—but there’s a stillness in the air here that even I can feel, a sense that I didn’t just buy a thousand-year-old crib sight unseen but maybe a piece of time itself. I know, big words for a guy who’s lived on his boat until now—when I was off duty, which wasn’t that often.

I shake off that unbidden bout of lyricism as I stop the Jeep in front of the closed gate. The wood looks rotten in places—gonna need to reno that.

“I, uh . . . I’ll go open it,” Jean-Kevin says, producing a set of jingling keys from his briefcase. Some look recent, but most are old-fashioned iron keys. A thrill skims down my spine: my keys.

I watch him scramble to the massive doors. He’s sweating too much even for today’s eighty-degree weather. His hands are shaking a little. I don’t like this. Plus, dude plundered my makrut when I wasn’t looking. I snatch one from the near-empty bag in the passenger seat before he returns to finish the job.

It seems to take all his strength to push the gate doors open just wide enough for my Jeep to drive through. I’d crack a joke about skipping arm day, but I can hear the groan of rusty hinges from here: add buying grease to my to-do list.

I draw a slow breath and drive through the gates, taking in the hulking tower house facing the keep. It leans against a seventeenth-century wing and a small chapel. I think most of the lavish interior pictures I saw online were taken in that east wing; the previous count apparently lived there with his wife, and the rest of the castle was open to visitors until the mid-2000s. The old man probably grew tired of tourists and wanted some privacy.

Structurally speaking, I see nothing wrong with the building from the outside: the grout seems recent in places, probably less than fifty years old, and there’re no cracks. Nothing’s smoking, and the tower house’s elegant lancet windows appear to be in okay shape. I can’t speak for what’s inside the east wing, since all the curtains are drawn, but I’d say things are looking good so far. Now that we’re in the courtyard, though, I can see that an entire section of the ramparts collapsed at some point, leaving the space wide open to the left. How much does it cost to rebuild ramparts? Will need to ask on Reddit; there has to be a sub for that.

At any rate, I guess the open field beyond is my new lawn. Perfect: that’s where I’ll dig my pool, and next to it, I’ll build a grill gazebo with an outdoor kitchen.

The last of the makrut is melting on my tongue as I step out of the Jeep, and life is sweet indeed. Mostly. “What’s that smell?” I ask Jean-Kevin when my nostrils pick up a slight funk wafting over to us. I sniff harder and assess the direction of the wind. It’s coming from the east wing, and by my guess, there’s either a gas station restroom or a dead body in there.

Speaking of dead people: Jean-Kevin is decomposing before my eyes. He makes a jerky motion to my trunk. “It’s, uh—I need my bag.”

“Sure.” I keep my expression genial as I unlock the trunk and watch him retrieve the duffel bag he brought with him. I have a feeling I’ll be getting answers very soon. And if I don’t, I’m pretty good at prying those out.

The sound of the bag’s zipper seems suddenly thunderous in the empty courtyard. Even the cicadas grow quiet as Jean-Kevin fishes out . . . a pair of gas masks and plastic coveralls.

“What the hell is this?”

His reply comes muffled as he secures a mask over his face. “I’m sorry, sir. The house needs a little cleaning.”

“A little? You’re. Wearing. A. Hazmat.” There’s a thrumming tension in my muscles that I recognize as a combination of mounting dread and anger. It’s in moments like these that I’m grateful for my years of training; it’s the only thing keeping me marginally cool as I watch Jean-Kevin zip up his suit. He offers me the remaining mask. I decline with a single shake of my head. All that’s left from the smile I wore moments ago is a twitch in my jaw, and I can tell from the tremor in Jean-Kevin’s fingers that he doesn’t like my resting bitch face. He’s gonna like it even less if he doesn’t get a move on and show me what’s in there. I jerk my chin to the massive transom doors of the east wing. “Open ’em. Now.”

I grind my molars at the irritating jingling of the keys in his hands. How long does it take to pick a goddamn key and turn it in a lock? The click of the latch rents the air like a gunshot. I register a low groan as Jean-Kevin opens the doors, and I make a mental note to grease those hinges, too. The house belches a cloud of dust, and that’s when the stench truly hits.

The first intake of fetid air nearly knocks me off my feet, carrying with it a thousand olfactory memories. A sick kitten my brother found on the side of the road that didn’t make it through the night, the smell of that small decaying body as I helped Josh bury it in our backyard. Other bodies, too many to count. Open sewers in Manila, an overcrowded Turkish jail . . . My stomach lurches as I blink into the darkened foyer. I gag, fighting a surge of bile and honey at the back of my throat: the makrut are coming up.

I feel the wall at my left for a light switch and flip it on. There’s a soft click followed by a splash of bleak yellow light. This . . . this is Château d’Arcas?

Jesus fuck.

“So, you are from where, in America?”

Delivered with a thick French accent and a slight quiver, the question comes from the young paralegal hugging his briefcase in my passenger seat. I guess he doesn’t like my driving, but I like my driving, especially on a sunny afternoon like this, cruising on a narrow country road to the hot tune of cicadas.

“The South,” I volunteer, barreling past a sign that says 70. My Wrangler’s speedo says 100. Close enough.

Jean-Kevin Bernard—that’s his actual name—sucks in a sharp breath. “Ah, like here. You have the sun and the good life.”

Not sure about the good life, but it’s true that the burnt grass and sparse pines flashing by feel strangely like home. The same dry heat scorches everything under a big, empty blue sky, and here, too, people make their money grow: back in my little corner of Georgia, it’s mostly cotton and corn. Here in Aude, it’s vineyards everywhere you look and, once in a while, the buttery yellow of a canola field. “Yeah, I guess your South and mine have a few things in common.”

“And the accent. You have an accent, right?”

That causes my eyebrows to jolt under my aviators: I didn’t expect him to be able to tell one American accent from another. “You bet I do,” I reply, thickening my drawl for the benefit of my rapt audience of one.

His head bobs along a couple potholes in the road. “Yes, just like us!” Indeed, his southern lilt is on full display, stretching the end of every word to a lazy uh. He studies me with renewed interest. “Mr. Pouillerolles said you speak very well French.”

“Je me débrouille.” I can manage.

All right, I am pretty good at the language of love and socialism—no bragging. I learned seven years ago, for a job in Djibouti that I don’t care to remember too vividly. I was given twelve hours’ notice before being dropped over the Red Sea with a one-page conversation guide tucked in my tactical vest. By the time I touched shore, the only thing I could confidently say was, “Bonjour, Salut, je suis Virgil.” Good times.

I’ve gotten fluent since, largely thanks to French for Dummies and a few stints in Paris. Even so, some subtleties of the language still elude me, like why French words need so many letters no one bothers to pronounce. To me, that’s the linguistic equivalent of wearing fringe: you’ve got useless letters dangling everywhere and getting caught in your tongue every time you try to say, ‘yeux.’ For the record, it’s pronounced, ‘zee-uh’ and that makes zero fucking sense.

“Ah, we’re almost there.” Jean-Kevin points to our destination: a smattering of sunbaked, tiled roofs in the distance. Puigdarcas—yet another French-Occitan name booby-trapped with random letters—boasts 139 souls, a 12th-century Roman church, and a medieval castle from the same period in its 4.16 square miles perimeter.

That last item is what we’re here for, by the way.

I can feel my grin stretch wider as I slow down along the village’s narrow main street, a tight row of medieval houses with colorful shutters and wisteria crawling up the walls. This place is so French I expect to grow a beret any moment now.

Jean-Kevin motions to the distant silhouette of a square keep flanked by four turrets as it flashes between two houses about my ten o’clock. “Ah, you can see the castle already.”

I can, and that simple glimpse awakens the little boy in me. I haven’t been this excited since my big brother got me a PlayStation 2 for Christmas when I was eight. He threw in NASCAR 2001 to top it off, and I damn nearly shit myself when I opened the box. I ended up with calluses from hammering at that PS2 controller, and that used to be my best memory . . . until today.

Okay, drum roll: today, I, a humble country boy from Georgia, who used to do duster in the back of a banged-up Econoline on Big K’s parking lot, have peaked.

At thirty-three—age of the Christ—I’ve actually managed to:

– Leave Georgia (That alone ain’t no easy feat: last time I checked, some of my high school buds were still on that lot.)

– Retire (Got injured on duty. Just a flesh wound.)

– BUY A CASTLE IN FRANCE (with that sweet, sweet retirement bonus) . . . and, wait for it, the goddamn title to go with it. Not too sure about the technicalities: Mr. Pouillerolles—the notary—said I’m not allowed to call myself Comte d’Arcas on ID papers or pass on the title to my kids (don’t have any, not planning to), but anything else is fair game. Which means that Monsieur le Comte will soon be cruising along the French Riviera, drinking Rosé from the box on pristine beaches, and banging rich and emotionally insecure women—I’m a simple man with simple needs.

I shake off a giddy sigh as I hit the gas again: we’re almost there, and I’m counting the seconds until I snatch the keys from Jean-Kevin and start planning where I’ll dig my pool.

“Take to the left on Route de Lérins,” Jean-Kevin quips, parroting my GPS.

The wheel is already spinning in my hands when the door of a bakery on the street corner slams open. A juicy brunette in a hot pink apron bursts out . . . and jumps in the middle of the road. The Jeep’s tires screech as I hit the brakes, or maybe that high-pitched squawk was Jean-Kevin’s. A couple of seconds pass while the woman I nearly killed and I gauge each other through the windshield. Late thirties, with tan skin and bold North-African features. No visible weapon, but she’s holding a bag of cookies or something. Her thick eyebrows knit together. She flips a black snake of a braid over her shoulder and marches to my side of the car.

I roll down my window to ask what the hell her problem is, but she strikes first, with the kind of accent you hear on the other side of the Mediterranean from Marrakesh to Tunis. “C’est toi le nouveau comte?” Are you the new count?

Damn, news travel fast around here. I lower my sunglasses to give her my best blue-eyed asshole grin—was never as blonde, as tall, or as jacked as my brother, but that’s one thing I’ve got going for me: a mugshot most women like. “Indeed, Ma’am. People call me Virgil,” I reply in my most polished French.

“Don’t call me Ma’am. The name’s Khadidja.” The mugshot thing worked: a good-natured smile softens her gaze as she shoves her bag of treats in my lap, along with a pink business card. I pick up a whiff of frying oil and orange blossom from the sticky, diamond-shaped pastries. Makrut. Neat: I haven’t had good ones since a job in Algiers a couple years ago. “You’re gonna need it,” Khadidja adds ominously.

Not sure what to make of that last part, so I just say, “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

I pop a makrut in my mouth and hand out the bag to Jean-Kevin, who’s turned the same gray as his suit. He digs in nonetheless and nods in appreciation. He’s right: they’re perfect: pure honey and diabetes ooze out from every bite, and they’ve got that elusive flavor that reminds me of my gram’s fried peach pies—the trick is to always reuse the frying oil.

Meanwhile, Khadidja casually reaches to pat the business card that’s now resting in my shirt’s breast pocket. “I do French and Algerian pastries, bread, and sandwiches. I also do catering for weddings. You call: my husband delivers.”

I glance at the red storefront behind her and the sign above it that says, La Mie D’Oran. “I’ll make sure to remember it.”

Her intense black gaze darkens once more as she steps away from the car with a final flip of her braid. “Good luck up there.”

Is it me, or this sounds like the start of a Scooby-Doo episode? Next to me, Jean-Kevin is still tearing his way through my bag of makrut in awkward silence while I start the engine. We leave the last houses behind us as we drive up the steep hill that overlooks Puigdarcas. “What did she mean by that?”

His answering shrug is a poor attempt at casual. “It’s a big property. There’s a lot of work to maintain it, I guess.”

Right. I’m not sure I’m satisfied with that answer, but Castle d’Arcas bursts into view the moment we clear the top of the hill, and its medieval glory shushes the warning bells at the back of my head. Now that’s what I call a bachelor’s pad, with its low ramparts cinching a 100-foot-tall keep studded with arrowslits. Actual arrowslits. Will I test them? Absolutely: I’ve got a sick, 505 FPH crossbow waiting in my trunk just for that.

I’m still grinning stupidly and rapping my fingers on the wheel as I pull over on the trail leading up to the castle. The keep dominates the hill, overlooking a three-story tower-house and ramparts walls—five to six feet thick, with a twenty-feet tall gateway leading into the courtyard.

Now, I’m not exactly a medieval History buff—I mean, I cleared high school, and I rewatched Kingdom of Heaven and Just Visiting to give myself a few pointers—but there’s a stillness in the air here that even I can feel, a sense that I didn’t just buy a thousand-years old crib sight unseen, but maybe a piece of time itself. I know, big words for a guy who’s lived on his boat until now—when I was off-duty, which wasn’t that often anyway.

I shake off that unbidden bout of lyricism as I stop the car in front of the closed gateway. The wood looks rotten in places: gonna need to reno that.

“I, uh . . . I’ll go open it,” Jean-Kevin says, producing a set of jingling keys from his briefcase. Some look recent, but most are old-fashioned iron keys. A thrill skims down my spine: my keys.

I watch him scramble to the massive doors. He’s sweating too much even for today’s 80 degrees weather. His hands are shaking a little. I don’t like this. Plus, dude plundered my makrut when I wasn’t looking, I realize, glancing at the near empty bag in the passenger seat. I snatch one before he returns to finish the job.

It seems to take all of his strength to push the gates open just wide enough for my Jeep to drive through. I’d crack a joke about skipping arm day, but I can hear the groan of rusty hinges from here: add buying grease to my rapidly growing to-do list.

I draw a slow breath and drive through the gates, taking in the hulking tower-house that faces the keep. It leans against a 17^th century wing and a small chapel: I think most of the lavish interior pictures I saw online were taken in that north wing: the previous count apparently lived there with his wife, and the rest of the castle was open to visitors until the mid-2000’s. The old man probably grew tired of tourists and wanted some privacy.

Structurally speaking, I see nothing wrong with the building from the outside: the grout seems recent in places, probably less than fifty years old, and there’re no cracks. Nothing’s smoking and the tower-house’s elegant lancet windows appear to be in okay shape. I can’t speak for what’s inside the north wing since all curtains are drawn, but I’d say things are looking good so far. Now that we’re in the courtyard though, I can see that an entire section of the ramparts collapsed at some point, leaving the space wide open to the left. How much does it cost to rebuild ramparts? Will need to ask on Reddit: there has to be a sub for that.

At any rate, I guess the open field beyond is my new lawn. Perfect: that’s where I’ll dig my pool, and next to it, I’ll build a grill gazebo with an outdoor kitchen.

The last of the makrut is melting on my tongue as I step out of the car and life is sweet, indeed. Mostly. “What’s that smell?” I ask Jean-Kevin when my nostrils pick up a slight funk wafting over to us. I sniff harder and assess the direction of the wind. It’s coming from the north wing, and by my guess, there’s either a gas station restroom or a dead body in there.

Speaking of dead people: Jean-Kevin is decomposing before my eyes. He makes a jerky motion to my trunk. “It’s, uh—I need my bag.”

“Sure.” I keep my expression genial as I unlock the trunk and watch him retrieve the duffel bag he brought with him. I have a feeling I’ll be getting answers very soon. And if I don’t, I’m pretty good at prying those out.

The sound of the bag’s zipper seems suddenly thunderous in the empty courtyard. Even the cicadas grow quiet as Jean-Kevin fishes out . . . a pair of gas masks and plastic coveralls.

“What the hell is this?”

His reply comes muffled as he secures a mask over his face. “I’m sorry, sir. The house needs a little of cleaning.”

“A little? You’re. Wearing. A. Hazmat.” There’s a thrumming tension in my muscles that I recognize as a combination of mounting dread and anger. It’s in moments like this that I’m grateful for my years of training: it’s the only thing keeping me marginally cool as I watch Jean-Kevin zip up his suit. He offers me the remaining mask. I decline with a single shake of my head. All that’s left from the smile I wore moments ago is a twitch in my jaw, and I can tell from the tremor in Jean-Kevin’s fingers that he doesn’t like my resting bitch face. He’s gonna like it even less if he doesn’t get a move on and show me what’s in there. I jerk my chin to the massive transom doors of the north wing. “Open it. Now.”

I grind my molars at the irritating jingling of the keys in his hands. How long does it take to pick a goddamn key and turn it in a lock? The click of the latch rents the air like a gunshot. I register a low groan as Jean-Kevin opens the doors, and I make a mental note to grease those hinges, too. The house belches a cloud of dust, and that’s when the stench truly hits.

The first intake of fetid air nearly knocks me off my feet, carrying with it a thousand olfactive memories. A sick kitten my brother found on the side of the road, that didn’t make it through the night; the smell of that small, decaying body as I helped Josh bury it in our backyard. Other, countless bodies, too many of them. Open sewers in Manila, an overcrowded Turkish jail . . . My stomach lurches as I blink into the darkened lobby. I gag, fighting a surge of bile and honey at the back of my throat: the makrut are coming up.

I feel the wall at my left for a light switch and flip it on. There’s a soft click, followed by a splash of bleak, yellow light. This . . . this is Château d’Arcas?

Jesus fuck.

“He had depression.”

Jean-Kevin’s muffled voice filters through my stupor. I can’t see the floor. Scratch that: I can’t see the damn walls or even the stairs. Everything is covered in . . . trash. Old books and magazines, dirty clothes, rotten—desiccated—food, and, I’m pretty sure, dog shit. At least I hope it’s dog shit. I glance down at my boot to see that I stepped in it when I walked in—left foot. Khadidja’s warning echoes in my mind: Good luck indeed.

I’d laugh, but I’m pretty sure I’ll throw up if I do.

“He was a hoarder,” I eke out, assessing the scope of the disaster. Peeling wallpaper, mountains of garbage, years and years of dust and grime on every discernible surface. I’d say the entire first floor is buried under one to five feet of trash. Good thing the place is huge: a smaller house would have been filled to the rafters.

Jean-Kevin releases a raspy sigh through his mask. “It began after his wife died. Then he had a heart problem and he stopped leaving the castle. His dogs were old, too, and he wasn’t walking them anymore, so . . .”

Yeah, I don’t need the details; the smell alone is worth a thousand words. It takes me a battle against my masseters to unclench my jaw. “Those pictures Mr. Saint-Clair sent me . . .” The pictures I skimmed through before I made the impulsive decision to sink over a million dollars into Château d’Arcas. Sight. Unseen.

Jean-Kevin takes a cautious step back. “They were from after the renovations of 2007.”

Less than twenty years ago: because anything older would have predated the all-digital era. The pics might have been visibly scanned, prompting prospective buyers to ask when they’d been shot. Was I that drunk the night I called Saint-Clair? I was at Josh’s, and we’d hit a bottle of rye whiskey, but we hadn’t killed the entire thing. I told Josh I needed to do something big and stupid with the rest of my life. I showed him the pics, and he said “Go for it.”

And I fucking did.

It’s as if everything I ever learned over the past ten years flew out the window that night. Analyze the data; run it against competing intel; assess the reliability of your sources; check for potential corruption or forgery. Never press the trigger until you’ve got a 360 of the field and the players. For Christ’s sake, I’ve put more research into buying confetti-cake mix for my birthday than I did for d’Arcas!

Gram would tell me there’s no point in crying over spilled beans, so I follow Jean-Kevin outside, breathe out my anger, and breathe in a smile that certainly won’t reach my eyes. “You and your boss fucked me over.”

The interested party lifts his mask. His face is drenched in sweat, and he’s probably gonna need to breathe through a paper bag soon. “No! I mean, I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t say anything either.”

“It’s not my job to comment on Mr. Saint-Clair’s transactions. Besides . . .”

“Besides?” I repeat, nostrils flaring.

His gaze avoids mine to land on the Jeep’s hood. There’s a hint of defensiveness in his stance that I didn’t expect. I thought he’d have just unraveled completely by now. “No one buys a castle they’ve never seen. Only Americans and Saudis do that.”

I’m gonna need aloe for that burn, but fair enough: I did this to myself. The corner of my mouth kicks up as some of my initial anger turns into dark amusement at the literal mess I landed myself in. It’s five forty already, too late to get anything done, and my right thigh has been throbbing steadily since I stepped out of the Jeep—probably worked out too hard yesterday. All right, let’s try to salvage at least something of my first day as a homeowner.

I make my way to the still-open trunk and unlock the bulky T-shaped case housing my brand-new crossbow. Hot damn, she’s pretty. Love the sleek lines and light polymer body. I pull her out, along with a quiver full of bolts.

As expected, Jean-Kevin’s eyes pop out like Ping-Pong balls the moment he sees the crossbow. “Oh putain! Listen, sir, I know you’re angry, and I can understand, but—”

Fuck, indeed. I prowl toward him, relishing his expression of primal panic. “Hey, JK, know what this is?”

He scrambles back, holding out his palms in either defense or surrender—I’m sure even he doesn’t know which it is. “Sir, I will have to call the police. Please don’t do this.”

I take a bolt from its quiver and nock it for show. “It’s a TRX 515. Believe me, crossbows don’t get much faster than this. I’m not crazy about the scope: I should have taken the other one. . . Anyway, this baby can shoot up to 515 feet per second. That’s more muzzle energy than a .22; did you know that?”

It’s when I see him unzip his hazmat and fumble for his cellphone that I decide I’ve toyed with him enough. That moron might actually manage to call the cops and make my day even worse. I lower the crossbow with a chuckle. “Hey, hey, chill out. It’s not for you.”

His fingers pause in their search. “Is it for Mr. Saint-Clair?”

“No.” I point to the keep behind with a bolt. “I just want to test the arrow slits. That’s why I bought it.”

“The . . .” He cranes his neck back, tension ebbing from his limbs. Guys like him are so easy to read, it’s like playing with a puppy. His breath is still coming in short pants, but he manages a brittle laugh. “The arrow slits. Oh merde, you scared me.”

“You’re not off the hook yet, JK,” I warn. “Tell Saint-Clair I want to see him, and that if he can’t clear his schedule, I’ll drive over to Marseille and I’ll clear it for him.”

“With the crossbow?” He ventures with an uneasy smile.

I shake my head as he leads the way to the keep. “Don’t tempt me, I—”

Whatever I was about to say gets knocked off-track by the realization that there’s someone at my six. It’s been a while since anyone has been able to catch me unawares. I spin around the shadow that just materialized in the courtyard, ready to aim my crossbow at the intruder . . . only to find myself face to face with a bust of Nefertiti—or the closest thing to it. Long-limbed, golden-brown skin, feline features, and short-cropped curly hair. But the most important part is I’m almost sure she wasn’t there five seconds ago.

I think, Okay, what now? but I say, “Hey there, can I help you with something?”

“It’s me, Ted.” BBC accent, spoken barely above a murmur. Her perfectly symmetrical face is void of any expression. Her dead brown eyes seem to stare right through me without registering my presence. Is she stoned? For a country that bans weed, France boasts the highest consumer rate in Europe, but I don’t think that’s what it is. Her eyes aren’t red, and her posture is steady. Autistic maybe?

“Ted who?” I probe.

“From Airbnb.”

It doesn’t escape me that she blatantly failed to provide a last name when prompted to. As I ponder this fact, Jean-Kevin’s eyes light up in apparent understanding. “Oh, it was still listed?”

“What? That?” I motion to the Dark Souls level awaiting us on the other side of the east wing’s now closed doors. D’Arcas can’t possibly have been on Airbnb. That would have ended up with blazing one-star reviews and a couple of lawsuits after the first week.

“No, the outbuilding.” Jean-Kevin points to a small stone house leaning against the ramparts across the courtyard. “Where the groundskeeper lived.”

I hold my hands up and take a second to process this new level of mindfuck. “It’s habitable?”

He nods eagerly. “Yes, of course.”

“The old count didn’t—” I tip my head at the east wing. No need to air my dirty—nasty—laundry in front of Ted.

Jean-Kevin answers my implicit question with a shrug. “No.”

“You’re telling me he lived in there . . . while there was a perfectly good house a hundred feet away? And he leased that one out instead?”

“I think he needed the money after he closed the castle to visitors.” Jean-Kevin trots over to the outbuilding, apparently expecting the two of us to follow. Ted obeys the unspoken command with perfectly metered steps, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

I seize this opportunity to scan the rest of her out of habit. Five feet eight, 140 pounds, give or take five depending on muscle mass. Lean and mean, judging by the shape of those legs under worn gray leggings. Black T-shirt, black backpack. The hands are clean, but the knuckles are rough and the nails blunt: never a good sign.

Then there’s her attitude—or lack thereof. By now, any ordinary tourist would have expressed at least a modicum of concern at the sight of Jean-Kevin’s hazmat suit or the putrid smell lingering in the courtyard. I search her empty gaze, determined to fish something out of those deep, dark pools. I’ve got nothing; it’s almost as if she’s a toy that’s been switched off. For now?

“Voilà!” Here!

My scrutiny of Ted is interrupted by Jean-Kevin’s enthusiastic reveal of the only livable quarters on the estate: the first floor is a dim living room with an open kitchen along the wall. The range looks my age, but hey, as long as it works. We’ve got a dining table, four chairs—good. The sofa is an eight-legged brocade monstrosity, whose gilded frame seems completely out of place in this spartan crib; I’m guessing it came from the castle.

“What’s upstairs?” I ask. Once burned . . .

“Two bedrooms and a bathroom.”

The three of us make our way up narrow and creaky stairs to what used to be an attic. The ancient rafters look sturdy—no woodworm holes. The rooms are a bit dusty, but nothing’s crawling or rotting in here. Like the kitchen, the bathroom probably dates back to the eighties. Washer, sink, vintage square tub: the bare essentials.

Okay, time to be a dick. I turn to Ted with my most sympathetic smile. “Look, it’s been great meeting you, but I’m gonna have to cancel your booking.” Because I want to lick my wounds in here alone and get thoroughly wasted—I hope there’s something left in the wine cellar; I’ll take rubbing alcohol at this point.

Neither her face nor her voice registers any emotion.

“You can file for a refund,” I hedge. “Tell them there’s been a change of owner.”

Her head lolls in something that may or may not be a nod. Weird . . .

“But where is she going to sleep tonight?” Jean-Kevin pipes.

Oh, for f . . . The last thing I need right now is that guy appointing himself as my shoulder angel.

“I’m sure Ted can find something else.” Or sleep rough for all I care. I pull out my phone and do a quick search on Airbnb. “See? There’s another house west of the village: ‘Private room. You will enjoy my house and the very peaceful area. Women travelers welcome. Good breakfast for free. Share the bathroom.’ And for twenty euros: a total steal!” I conclude, injecting as much enthusiasm as I can muster for a sixties prison cell with brown wallpaper and approximately five inches of orange shag pile.

Jean-Kevin peeks at the screen over my shoulder. “Ah, Mr. Bidoufle. Yes, I heard that he’s back in his mother’s home. He’s doing Airbnb now?” I detect a wince in his voice that I’m in no mood to investigate right now. Bidooflu or whatever sounds good as long as it gets Ted and her line of red flags off my property.

She produces a rugged smartphone from her inner pocket and swipes to open the app, studying the listing with unblinking eyes. Her forefinger hovers over the glass surface for an excruciating two seconds before she taps “Book” and turns on her heel without another word.

I indulge in a small sigh of relief at the sight of Ted’s retreating back. Here’s at least one of my ninety-nine problems solved. As for the ninety-eight remaining ones . . . After we’ve watched Ted disappear down the trail, Jean-Kevin offers me his spare gas mask once more. “Keep it. You’ll need it.”

Just taking the mask feels like a small defeat, but he’s probably right. I’m gonna have to face this mess and assess the damage pretty soon, and I guess I’ll need equipment for that. For now, though . . . “Weren’t you gonna show me around the keep?”

“Ah, yes.” He darts a sideways look at my crossbow. “You are seriously going to use it?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“No, move it to the left!”

“Here?” Jean-Kevin yells from the courtyard as I gaze seventy-five feet down out of one of the keep’s arrow slits. We found a straw bale in a neighboring field and stole borrowed it, for science. JK was tasked with adjusting our target while I got in position to shoot it.

The keep is inhabitable as it is—raw sandstone walls, no windows, and spiral staircases that were apparently built for hobbits—but I have no regrets right now. I own the best pillow fort ever, and I intend to enjoy it as a count should. The rope’s cocked; the enemy’s in the crosshairs, and he’s fixin’ to raid my castle. Not today; definitely not today.

“Clear the field!” I shout, watching JK run for safety through the scope.

This thing’s so fast that the 400-grain bolt seems to materialize in my target before I’ve even pressed the trigger. JK lets out an overexcited whoop as the bolt tears through the bale like butter and lands in the ground right behind it. I shoot another couple of bolts to work off the afternoon’s steam, each press of the trigger sending a pleasurable jolt up my arm. By the time I’m done and I’ve jogged back downstairs, my head feels clearer and the pain in my thigh has dulled. I can take this. I’ll tackle the east wing’s cleaning and renovation one step at a time, and I’ll make Saint-Clair pay for it. Down. To. The. Last. Cent.

 For now, though, I’ve gotta drive JK back to Carcassonne. His earlier enthusiasm seems to dim as he shimmies out of his hazmat. He sighs, his gaze set on the distant pink and ocher strokes of Puigdarcas’s roofs. “Do you think we should call the police just in case?”

I put the crossbow back in its case and lean against the Jeep. “In case of what?”

“You know . . . for that young woman.”

“Ted? Why do you want to report her? She’s done nothing wrong in my book.” Truth be told, I do get a sketchy vibe from her, but that’s none of JK’s business.

“No, I mean—” His voice goes down a notch even though there’s literally no one for a mile around. “Because of Bidoufle.”

“The Airbnb guy? What’s the deal with him?”

 His face pinches in disbelief. “You haven’t heard about the murders?”

“I’m sorry. Come again?”

You gotta be shitting me.

My eyes slowly widen as I skim through Narcisse Bidoufle’s Wikipedia entry on my phone: a solitary bus driver turned serial killer, our boy boasts six confirmed victims between 1988 and 1991—out of fifteen suspicious disappearances between Carcassonne and Perpignan. The girls were first raped, then strangled, except the ones he put down with a bolt gun. Wow. I mean, I’ve killed a lot more people than that, but never disabled Girl Scouts, for fuck’s sake! And dude actually got paroled after twenty-seven years on a life sentence for . . . good behavior? What is this, Canada with baguettes?

Okay. I don’t know Ted—and I don’t really want to—but my grandma raised me right: you don’t hit girls, and you don’t rape them either unless they’re really into that kind of role-play and they’ve got a weird safe word, like “schnitzel.” And if it turns out that you accidentally advised a fine young lady to book her Airbnb from Ted Bundy, well . . .

“Jump in, JK. You and I are gonna make sure Ted is having a five-star experience over there.”

He hugs his briefcase like a shield. “Uhm, I don’t know. I have to get back to my hotel. I was supposed to see friends tonight, and—”

“I’ll drive you back once we’re done.” I flick my fingers. “Hurry up.”

By the time I’m behind the wheel, Jean-Kevin has yet to budge. “I think I’ll call a taxi.”

“Suit yourself. Have a good one.” I slam the door without looking back. I don’t have any time to waste on making a man out of him. If he’s not up to shooting a sixty-three-year-old AirBNB landlord, fine: I’ll do it.

Approximately three minutes later, I’m hand-braking my way through Puigdarcas’s needle-eye streets, still wondering how the hell the best day of my life devolved into the worst in the space of, what, two hours? I give my GPS a quick check as the Jeep rattles across an old bridge. I just cleared the river and I’m speeding along a vineyard on Rieux road, a quarter mile away from the target, so . . . Pretty sure Bidoufle’s lair is that corrugated roof peeking through a copse of trees to my right.

I park some way down the road so that the sound of the engine won’t tip off our model host. I always keep a loaded CZ 75 under each front seat—force of habit, plus you never know who might show up at your door to mess with a defenseless retiree. Still, I did not expect I’d need a gun today. I’m not even wearing a holster, so I end up tucking my CZ in the back of my waistband like I’m out to rob a liquor store.

The front yard is one busted jerrican away from becoming a legit dump yard. A handful of chickens peck away at the ground, unfazed by my presence. The house, too, has seen better days: a dull-yellow stucco two-story, with a roof that’s half tile, half tin. Silence hums all around me, streaked with soft clucking and the rustle of oak leaves in the evening breeze—horror movie vibe, no cap. I’m tempted to just go ahead and knock on the front door, but I’m intrigued by the stillness of this little house. No visible movement inside, not a goddamn sound, even though an Airbnb guest supposedly just arrived.

Ted can’t be dead already, right? She left d’Arcas not even an hour ago. I don’t like this, and I like even less that I do care a little if Bidoufle bolt-gunned her and buried her in his backyard. All right, let’s clear this place. It’s a short walk around the building to a single door I’m guessing must lead to the kitchen. I creep along the wall—with a chicken strutting on my heels—and try the handle. Finding the door unlocked, I nudge it ajar and do a quick recon.

It’s Ted I see first, standing near a toppled dining chair. There’s blood on the sink behind her. That single splash of red sends me into autopilot. Speed, surprise, violence: I mentally tick off each item of the universal close-quarters combat protocol as I draw out, kick the door open hard enough that it goes flying off its hinges, and muzzle-sweep the perimeter, barking something along the lines of, “Are you okay? Stay back!”

Ted remains perfectly still while the chicken runs away in a flurry of feathers and panicked clucking. The faint groan that answers me isn’t hers.

By the time I’m done circling the table, I lower my gun in sync with the rise of my eyebrows. The first sound that makes it past my lips is a low whistle.

Fuck me.

Narcisse Bidoufle—pretty sure it’s him with that yellowish-red hair—lies on his kitchen floor with his pants down. He’s got this weird tiny lump of fat tucked under his— My bad; that’s his dick. Ted appears unharmed and thus in better shape than Bidoufle, whose left knee is bent backward at a ninety-degree angle. Right arm is broken in two different places—elbow and wrist. The side of his face is completely busted, and I count at least three broken front teeth: that must have something to do with the bloodstained crack in his farm sink.

I shove my gun back into my waistband and kneel down to check his pulse—still alive. Good: that knee is gonna hurt like a mofo when he comes around. Unless his belt accidentally dropped along with his pants, I think I’ve got a fairly good picture of what went down in here. I look up at Ted’s impassive features. “Did you do this?”

“Yes.” Her voice is a soft, robotic murmur. She’s staring at a point past my shoulder like I’m not even in the room. I’d say she’s shell-shocked, but she was already in that semi-catatonic state back at the castle, and she just admitted to folding Bidoufle like origami—without breaking a sweat, by the way. That begs the question: What the hell is wrong with this chick, and more importantly, do I want to find out?

“Nice job. Where did you learn to fight?”

She stares ahead and offers no reply. The chicken strutted back into the house while I wasn’t looking. Its head jerks left and right between me and Ted as if it, too, expects an answer.

“All right, let’s get outta here.” My fingerprints aren’t in any database—and if Ted’s are, that’s her problem, not mine—so let’s call it a day and leave Bidoufle to agonize in his kitchen until either a neighbor walks by or his chickens peck him to death.

I’ve got one foot out the door already when furious clucking erupts in response to the sound of an approaching car. I round the house to check out the navy-blue SUV that just parked in front of Bidoufle’s house. Triple white stripe, blue and orange flashing lights. Aw, come on . . . Will this day ever end? Someone—probably Jean-Kevin—called the cops.

I tuck my shirt over the gun still sticking out from my waistband and summon my best concerned-citizen face as two men and a woman step out of the vehicle. They’re all wearing baby blue polo shirts and navy fatigue pants—not exactly cops, then, but rather gendarmes, a local species that’s part local sheriff’s office, part military, and it all somehow makes sense to the French. I count two side caps and a peaked one: that one’s the officer, a Black guy my age who sizes me up with a shuttered expression.

“Bonsoir, monsieur. Gendarmerie Nationale. Est-ce que Monsieur Bidoufle est chez lui?” Good evening, sir. National Gendarmerie. Is Mr. Bidoufle home?

Time for me to sound suitably distressed in my best French. “Merci d’être venus si vite: il a glissé!” Thank you for coming so fast: he slipped!

I can tell from the slight narrowing of the officer’s eyes that he’s growing suspicious—my accent probably doesn’t help in a country where everybody hates Brits or any rando who could be misconstrued as one. He motions for his grunts to follow and strides past me. “Il est où?” Where is he?

“In the kitchen ,” I reply in French.

Ted hasn’t moved since I barged in. The gendarmes take in her blank stare, the broken door, Bidoufle’s injuries, and the chicken that’s now idly pecking at his dandruff. Bidoufle lets out a whistling groan, prompting the two grunts to rush to his side while the officer calls the SAMU—French 911, same as ours, down to the part where sometimes the dispatcher just laughs at you and you die. Once he’s done with his call, the officer turns to me, his jaw tight. “That’s one big fall. Did you witness it, sir?”

“No, actually . . .” I walk over to Ted and slip an arm around her shoulders, inwardly praying that she won’t seize it, break it, and round-kick me all the way to the living room. She remains in a standing coma—thank the Lord for small blessings. “My friend here booked her room from Mr. Bidoufle on Airbnb. She called me, and I came over immediately . . . to help.”

A thick southern drawl takes over his next question. “Et le pantalon, il a glissé aussi?” And his pants, did they slip, too?

Ted gives a single nod, which I back with a sheepish wince. His stern gaze zeroes in on me. “What’s your name? Are you British?” Another wrinkle just appeared on his brow. Man, these people really do hate the Brits.

“American,” I correct, handing him my driver’s license. “Virgil Stiles.” Not the name I was born with but the one I chose for myself eight years ago as I stood on my own grave.

“And hers?”

Excellent question. Ted, please don’t screw this up for me. We’re doing great so far: we haven’t been arrested yet, Bidoufle is moaning under a shock blanket, and the distant whine of a siren outside suggests that the SAMU did actually respond and will soon take him away.

Ted blinks once, twice, searches the inside of her jacket, and produces a goddamn British passport— Oh, for . . . Really? She hands it over to the gendarme, who barely conceals a sniff of disdain at the sight of the golden coat of arms stamped on the cover. I can’t resist the urge to peek when he opens it. The first page identifies her as Ted Danson, and I’d laugh if I wasn’t surrounded by three soldiers on edge and a bloodthirsty chicken.

Ted shows no sign of hesitation as the gendarme scans her passport’s MRZ with his phone. Those two lines of gibberish and code will determine her fate: if they’re fake, the officer will know it as soon as he runs the data against European custom databases. I don’t think they are, though. I’ve got a hunch that this blatant forgery is, in fact, 100 percent authentic, which would make Ted one of the rare buyers who not only can afford one but knows where to get it. It pains me to say that this woman is becoming more and more intriguing by the minute.

The officer checks the feedback on his phone screen and gives a sharp nod. Her passport is as real as my driver’s license. When he looks up, I detect the slightest softening at the corners of his mouth: Ted and I have been moved from the suspects box to the victims one. He tilts his head at her. “Is she all right? Do we need to take her to the hospital, too?”

She gives a single shake of her head. No other part of her body moves, not even when three SAMU responders rush into the kitchen pushing a stretcher.

I pat her shoulder as they attempt to move a now screaming Bidoufle. “Nah. She’s a bit shocked, but our Ted is a fighter, right?”

One nod—as expected.

Apparently inured to the slaughtered pig noises rising behind us, the officer looks back and forth between us, his arms crossed. He eventually releases an uneasy sigh and pulls me aside, lowering his voice. “Listen, I get it, and I probably would have done the same, but we’re gonna have to question him when they’re done fixing him. So if you’re not a hundred percent sure he’ll confirm your version of events, you need to tell me now.”

I glance over my shoulder at the interested party. They managed to lift Bidoufle onto the stretcher after the emergency doctor injected him with something strong enough to shut him up. He’s now alternating between wheezing and gurgling breaths under his blanket, blinking his good eye at Ted to no avail: she’s still staring fixedly at the wall behind him. There’s nothing there though, just chipped cupboards and her backpack, which is still sitting on the counter.

Returning my attention to the officer, I flash him a confident smile. “I think he’ll confirm.” Actually, I’m damn sure he ain’t gonna press charges against Ted—not if he wants to keep his parole.

The gendarme gives a decisive nod. “Very well. Just stay in town in case we need to speak with you again.”

“Not going anywhere. I just bought a place that needs a lot of work.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. You’re the one who bought the castle? I heard it was a Brit.”

“Close enough,” I concede with a shrug. “And I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

His jaw tightens in a quasi-wince and seems about to ask about my real estate woes when a series of high-pitched groans interrupts our little chat. We turn around at the same time toward Bidoufle, who’s jerking against his restraints as the paramedics attempt to cart him away. His wild one-eyed glare is still set on Ted, who— Hang on, she’s moved. At some point during the past two minutes, she made her way to that cupboard she kept staring at and . . . I guess she’s raiding it? Bidoufle’s oinking grows frantic as Ted casually clears an entire shelf of candy bags and cookie boxes. Nice. I love those chocolate muffins, and she snatched a whole bag of Pierrot lollipops, too—excellent pick, especially the caramel ones.

Still, there’s an awkward beat of silence among the gendarmes and SAMU dudes as they watch Ted cram her loot into her backpack while Bidoufle keens and turns a weird shade of purple under his bandages. Once she’s done, her hands pause on the zipper, and for the first time since I entered the kitchen, her eyes meet mine—if only briefly. She averts her gaze to the bag of mini Kinder Buenos topping her haul. Seconds tick by as she stares unblinkingly at the bag, until finally, her lips move . . . and produce no sound.

I shake my head, about to give up on her when a soft, emotionless murmur reaches me. “He said . . . I could have them.”

Classic pedo. Too bad for him that Ted is a grown woman who seems to take things a smidge too literally. I have to fight the quirk of my lips as I walk over to Bidoufle. The hate and agony simmering in his bloodshot eye are a balm to my soul after that shitty afternoon. “You’ve been a great host and a good friend, Narcisse,” I tell him in French. “Five stars, Narcisse. Five stars.”

“No.” She zips up her backpack and shrugs it on without a glance for him as they finally cart him out. Mental note: Ted understands French, although she doesn’t seem willing to speak the language.

I clasp my hands together and tell the officer, “All right, I think Ted and I will be on our way. Thank you again, sir.”

As the gendarmes escort us out, I can almost taste the end of this hellish day, until I realize that the incident has attracted a small crowd of onlookers. A few cars are now parked haphazardly along the road, and a group of locals watch Bidoufle being loaded into the ambulance while whispering to one another. One of them, a middle-aged guy who looks like a cross between Joe Exotic and Dog the Bounty Hunter, calls out to the officer. “Hé, Yannis! Il s’est passé quoi?” Hey, Yannis! What happened?

The man I now know as Yannis waves Dog Exotic off. “Rien du tout. Faut circuler là.” Nothing at all. Now clear the road.

The thing is, while Yannis seems determined to cling to his military duties and preserve the secrecy of an ongoing investigation, his underlings are somewhat less bent on formality. The female gendarme tips her head at me. “L’anglais il a pété la gueule à Bidoufle.” The Brit beat the shit out of Bidoufle.

Before I can protest my innocence—or my citizenship—Dog Exotic lowers his biker shades and gives me a cautious once-over, imitated by a small group of teens and a sixtyish woman wearing a flower-print blouse and capri jeans. I can almost see the equation writing itself in their brains.

Bidoufle = bad. Brits = bad.

Assaulting Bidoufle = good. Brits assaulting Bidoufle = . . . good?

Dog slams his fist on the hood of his Kangoo minivan, signaling that an important decision has been made. The rest of the gang hold their breath as he slowly nudges his shades back up. “Tu viens dîner chez moi.” You’re dining at my place.

The declaration brooks no opposition, but I don’t even know where that guy lives, or why I should eat with him in the first place. I look around for help, but Ted is just standing there staring off into space, and the gendarmes are already pulling down Bidoufle’s driveway after the ambulance.

I’m alone. And kinda hungry. How bad can it get?

Dog loaded the granny and one of the teens in the back of his Kangoo and told me to follow him, so I did. Ted somehow ended up in my passenger seat, staring listlessly out the window as the sun set over Puigdarcas’s vineyards. There seemed to be a general understanding among the villagers that she was my girlfriend and that, as such, Dog’s invitation extended to her. She made no attempt to set him straight and instead climbed into my Jeep without even looking at me. Apparently, I’m an Uber driver in a toxic situationship now.

I keep sneaking glances at her delicate profile as I drive over the old bridge and back into the village. The slope of her nose and her skin tone remind me of women from eastern Africa. Somalia, Ethiopia: I wonder if she’s got roots there. At any rate, she’s beautiful—if necrophilia is your kink. Barely a breath or a blink. Her hands rest on her lap, palms up, fingers half-curled as if she were unconscious, but her eyes remain open, reflecting the horizon like dark mirrors. Is it weird if I check her pulse?

“Hey, Ted.”

One blink. No answer.

“Ted. You still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good. So how about you tell me a bit about yourself?” I wait in excruciating silence, trying to pay attention to the road as we follow Dog along the riverbank toward the church.

Ted now blinks repeatedly, which suggests she’s actually processing my question. I hold my breath.

“No.”

I sigh, my fingers tightening around the wheel. I honestly expected nothing, but somehow, I’m still let down. “That’s not gonna cut it, Ted. Is that even your name? Your passport’s fake.”

“No,” she murmurs. No hint of defensiveness, just that same flat tone.

“Well, I’m sure it’s as real as all of mine. Answer me: What’s your actual name?” I’ve dropped the nice guy act; it’s totally wasted on this chick.

“Ted.”

I just about stop myself from banging my forehead against the wheel as Dog parks on the church square in front of Puigdarcas’s only watering hole: a tiny bar squeezed into a crooked medieval house. The sign above the door reads Le Penitencier. The Penitentiary—just what I needed tonight. Meanwhile, Dog is motioning for us to follow him inside; I guess my interrogation will have to wait. I pull the hand brake under the boughs of a centenary beech tree. “We ain’t done here, but let’s grab a bite first.”

“Yes.”

That yes gives me pause. Do I detect a hint of eagerness here? I don’t dare call it enthusiasm from someone who sounds like she’s perpetually sleepwalking, but still . . . “You hungry?” I venture, remembering the way she raided Bidoufle’s cupboards.

“Yes.” And a firm nod to go with that! Maybe food’s the way through to Ted.

I cast my line as we get out of the Jeep. “When was the last time you ate?”

This time, silence stretches between us on our way across the square. Her head lolls a couple of times, like she’s in deep thought. “Yesterday.”

I frown. “Are you broke?”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t you eat?”

“I was walking.”

“You could have stopped.”

“No.”

My initial impulse is to follow up with “Where did you walk from?” but I suspect that Ted’s one-track mind might shut me out since the question would no longer be about food, so instead I ask, “And what was it, the last thing you ate?”

“A fenetra.”

“Isn’t that one of those almond cakes with apricot jam?”

“Yes.”

A predatory grin tugs at the corners of my lips. Gotcha. “It’s a Toulouse specialty, right?”

“Vous venez ou quoi?” Are you guys coming or what?

I could kill Dog for this. I had her; I know I did. But the interruption clearly short-circuited her. She stops on the bistro’s patio and stands there for several seconds in silence, staring ahead.

“Ted?” I nudge her forearm cautiously. “You were telling me about that fenetra you ate. Was it in Toulouse? Did you walk all the way from there?” Toulouse, the nearest big city, is seventy miles away. That’s less than two day’s march for a soldier in top shape, doing quick time on easy terrain and without a combat load. I’d say Ted checks all items on that list . . . except for number one; that’s the part I’d like to figure out.

So I wait.

She gives a sigh. “I’m hungry.”

Dammit.

“Then come in.” Dog shoves us both vigorously through the restaurant’s open door, killing my last chance at prying something out of her. He prowls over to the bar, an ancient structure of carved wood topped with a slab of chipped black marble. “Le plat du jour c’est cassoulet frites.” Today’s special is cassoulet with a side of fries.

Sausage, duck, and beans slow-cooked in pure fat: excellent program. The granny with the flower-print blouse and the lanky, pepperoni-faced teen are already seated in the back and study us with attentive brown gazes. I hate to say it, but I can tell they’re related because satellite dish ears run in the family—although she skillfully hides hers under a silvery bob. Dog takes off his shades as he gets behind the counter before he sends a glass bowl full of peanuts sliding my way. “What are you drinking?”

“Cacolac.”

Our heads snap to Ted, whose blank gaze is now set on a row of brown glass bottles with yellow labels sitting in a cooler. I shrug to indicate that I’m buying and if the lady wants chocolate milk, who am I to refuse her?

I scan the shelves behind Dog as he pours Ted’s Cacolac. “What do you recommend?”

“Depends what you’re looking for. Soft, hard? Local flavors?”

“Hard and local sounds good.”

A broad grin pleats his tanned face before he grabs a bottle of pastis from the bar and a coke from the cooler. “Then I’ll mix you my specialty: mazout!”

A cocktail called “fuel oil”—well, that sounds promising. I watch with interest as Dog pours two—no, hang on, four fingers of 45% pastis—followed by about the same amount of Coke. He finishes this wild blend with a black olive dropped straight into the glass and, of course, a tiny-ass umbrella. Satisfied with his work, he slides the glass my way and crosses his arms over his leather vest as I take my first sip.

How do I put this? I once knew a guy who ran on a mix of Polish vodka and cough syrup that he’d mix in a shaker—spoiler alert: his liver quit and he died. While Dog’s mazout tastes nothing like that, its vaguely medicinal flavor of Coke and anise manages to perfectly recapture the experience. This cocktail is the Proust’s madeleine that will unlock the memory of every shitty drink you’ve ever had, from a binge of cotton-candy liqueur to a late-night mug of Jack tainted with Cheeto powder and chocolate sauce—I know that one sounds oddly specific, but that was a couple years ago and I was going through a rough patch at the time.

Verdict: three point five stars for the nostalgia factor alone. I nudge my glass toward Ted. “Wanna give it a try?”

She never looks up from her Cacolac, but her lips release the straw. “No.” Her head lolls slowly once as she were trying to remember something. “It’s a sin.”

Didn’t see that one coming. “You religious?” I ask, taking another gulp of Dog’s heinous brew.

The question seems to bother her: she stares down at her half-full glass for several seconds, and I could swear there’s the faintest pinch to her brow. She eventually resumes her sipping without answering. That’s yet another sticky note in my mental Ted file: she maybe sort of had a religious upbringing, but whatever is left of it seems more like a Pavlovian reflex than actual fervor.

Meanwhile, Dog returns from the kitchen with a few warmed-up plates of his cassoulet, which he dumps on the counter in front of us. The fries land in a similar way shortly afterward, nearly brown from being double—possibly triple—fried. Gram would approve. I’m already clogging my arteries with all this greasy goodness when the teen jumps up from his chair and squeaks to Dog, “Allume la télé!” Turn on the TV!

Dog growls something about saying “please” but produces a remote from under the counter and points it at a flat-screen hanging from the ceiling. A pair of very French anchors pops up on the screen—you can immediately tell because the woman’s face is still visible through her makeup. She leans her right elbow on the set’s glass table to look concerned as she announces that Narcisse Bidoufle has been transported to Carcassonne’s hospital “in a state of absolute emergency” following a fall in his kitchen.

They cut to a guy standing outside the hospital as he dutifully recaps Bidoufle’s crowded résumé. His constipated expression never wavers as he adds, “Law enforcement authorities have declined to comment on the incident, but contradictory rumors have been circulating, some mentioning a brutal altercation with a British tourist.”

A piece of sausage falls out of my mouth before I can swallow it. “Dude, I’m not British!” Three pairs of eyes stare at me in confusion while Ted keeps vacuuming up her food in complete silence. I clarify in French, for the benefit of my audience. “Je suis pas anglais. Je suis américain.” I’m not English. I’m American.

Dog’s features freeze in shock, then prune up to a level of intensity that has me worried he’s gonna pull out a gun from under the counter. I brace my hands on either side of my plate of cassoulet as one of his eyes grows wider than the other. “You’re from America?”

I give a wary nod, and that’s when I notice for the first time the Route 66 sign hanging on the wall behind me, reflected in the bar mirror. There’s a pic of the Tennessee Theatre next to it, and higher up, one of the Statue of Liberty. New York, LA, Vegas, Cadillacs, and Harleys . . . How could I miss this when I walked in? Dog’s joint is more or less a giant postcard of the United States. His wolfish grin returns as he motions to Ted. “And her, too?”

“Born and bred in Texas,” I assure him. That earns me a blink from Ted, but she’s apparently too busy tearing through her fries to object.

Dog slams his meaty palms on the countertop, making our plates rattle. “So, you know Johnny?” When all I can offer in return is a puzzled look, he jerks his chin in the general direction of the granny and the kid. Every single pic hanging above their heads features an aging blond rocker, sweating buckets on stage as he yells mutely into his mic. My mouth hangs open in recognition: Dog’s fierce biker gear and bleached locks have nothing to do with my fave bounty-hunting train wreck, or even Joe Exotic. Dog cloned his looks after the French Elvis, the biggest rock star you’ve never heard of: Johnny Hallyday.

“You a fan?” I hedge, knowing full well that this man probably keeps a sealed tube of Johnny Hallyday’s authentic ball sweat in his nightstand drawer.

“Nah . . . it’s more than that.” His leathery jowls and bushy eyebrows drop somberly as he reaches for the TV’s remote. He switches from the news channel to Spotify. I shiver in awe at the sight of the dozens of Johnny playlists populating the screen. Dog has meticulously filed every phase of the singer’s nearly sixty-year-long career. Until the end: a playlist called Requiem.

Even Ted has stopped eating, attuned to the solemnity of the moment—or maybe it’s just that her plate’s empty already. The granny and the teen have left their seats and scuttled closer. Dog acknowledges their presence with a brooding nod and slowly lowers his shades back onto his nose. “J’vais vous éduquer.” I’m gonna educate you.

It’s past 10 p.m. and I’m three—or was it four?—glasses of mazout deep. I hope it’s three: my tolerance ain’t what it used to be, and I’m probably gonna need a liver transplant soon if I keep going. Can buy one online tomorrow, I guess. Carried by lazy tendrils of guitar, Johnny’s husky drawl drifts from the TV and croons something about Tennessee or whatever. I dunno. I’ve only been there once, and my understanding of French is further dissolving with each sip of mazout anyway.

Dog’s voice rings in my eyeballs as he recounts every second of a road trip he once took between Vegas and the Grand Canyon, riding a Harley just like Johnny. His name is actually Joël Roullier, and he’s indeed no mere Johnny fan: for over twenty years he built a successful career as a Johnny look-alike, lip-synching in small venues and performing in malls all over the country. Joël retired from the stage and bought the bar a few years back when Johnny died, because his soul died along with his idol.

And now he’s here, living in his memories and waiting for death in a castle full of garbage. Or maybe that’s me. Shit, I think all that mazout gave me depression.

A few patrons came and went. The granny and the kid stuck around. They’re both staring at me while Ted eats her second banana split. Jesus Christ . . . this woman is a competitive eater. I can’t figure out where she stores all that food and how she hasn’t thrown up yet.

Let’s call it a night.

I slink down from my stool and brace my hands against the counter. “A’ight, I think Imma head . . . Je vais me rentrer.” Took me a good ten seconds to realize I was mumbling in English and needed to switch back to French. Sweet Lord Jesus I’m FUBAR.

Joël frowns at me. “Can you still drive?”

“Definitely not. Gonna enjoy a nice slooooow walk home under the stars.”

“Can’t she drive?” He jerks his chin at Ted.

The cogs in my brain spin without biting for a while until it dawns on me that Ted and I are still a thing because I canceled her booking at d’Arcas and she, in turn, canceled Bidoufle. She’s got nowhere to sleep, and I’ve got two bedrooms in the outbuilding; she can hit the road again tomorrow. It’s almost tomorrow anyway.

It takes me a few tries to fish my keys out of my jeans pocket. “Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Great.” I toss her the keys; she catches them effortlessly. “You the designated driver.”

She does that thing then, that brief pause, the slight tilt of her head as if she were a cyborg processing what I just said. She’s pretty when she does that. Her gaze drops to the keys in her hand. She nods.

Walking the hundred feet or so between the bar and the Jeep feels like I’m the last man standing in the middle of a foam party; I’m never touching Joël’s mazout again. I’ve managed to sway in the general direction of the passenger door when I notice a quiet presence on our heels: the granny is tailing us. I glance over her head. The kid stayed behind; he’s watching us from Joël’s doorway, a stickman silhouetted by the coppery light spilling from the restaurant.

The granny dissects me with a patient gaze as I rasp in muddy French, “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

She shuffles closer and sets a bony hand on my forearm. My spine prickles in alert as her free hand reaches into a small purse dangling from her shoulder. All that comes out is her wallet. She releases me to pull out a faded ID picture of a red-haired teenage girl. The kid is staring at the camera with an expression of surprise and mild outrage, like she never saw it coming. She’s got Down’s.

“That’s my daughter,” she says softly, showing me the pic.

I can tell where this is going even in my current state. I don’t want this. I don’t want to hear what she has to say.

But she goes on. “She’d take the bus every day to go to a special needs school in Carcassonne. She liked it there. No one saw her come off the bus that day . . . and she never came home.” She shakes her head, lost in her memories. Her gaze won’t meet mine. Her voice breaks down to a whisper. “He never said if he’d done it. The gendarmes couldn’t find her body.”

And that woman is, what, grateful to me for having done absolutely jack shit? Bidoufle is still alive: I never even touched him in the first place. I keep swallowing, but nausea slithers up my throat. Nothing I could say could fix this, and she wouldn’t be thanking me if she had any idea what kind of man I am. My gaze avoids hers and lands on Ted, who’s already in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead in the dark. My door is open. I bet she’s heard every word so far. Did she know? Did she somehow Google Bidoufle and figure everything out? Or did she just react on instinct when that piece of shit dropped his pants?

“Look,” I begin. “I need to come clean. It wasn’t me. Ted can defend herself, and she messed him up like you wouldn’t believe. He didn’t die, but his leg is pretty much ruined. He’ll spend the rest of his life with a limp, and they’re probably gonna need to tape his face back together.”

The woman’s eyes slowly widen as she listens and peeks behind me at Ted’s statuesque profile. Ted turns her vacant gaze our way. “He had sinned,” she states.

I let that sink in, picturing her standing over Bidoufle’s broken body. She wasn’t gonna leave, and she wasn’t about to call the cops either. She would have finished him.

. . . Except I burst in.

Fuck me. I think I saved that bastard’s life.

“I’m sorry,” I croak—to Ted or the granny, I’m not sure.

A wan smile lights up fireflies in the old woman’s kind brown eyes. “What for? I can’t wish him dead; I’m a Christian, you know. Father Bère—oh, you haven’t met him yet, he’s our priest—he says we find our peace in forgiveness.”

I go for what I hope is a sympathetic smile, but I’m pretty sure it came out as a cringe. The granny’s gaze grows flinty as she returns her focus to Ted. “But I prefer her gospel to Matthew’s; it’s brought me more peace, after all.”

“I bet it did.”

She pats my arm just as Gram would have if I were home. “Now go to bed, Monsieur le Comte. You’re a mess.”

Am I? Yeah, for sure . . . I’m not fully aware of hauling my drunk ass into the Jeep as the granny waves us goodbye. That fourth mazout kindly waited for me to slump in the seat to kick in, but now that we’re driving away it’s making the few remaining lights swish around me like I’m a blob of paint being smeared on a goddamn Van Gogh. I didn’t ask Ted if she remembers the way to the castle, but she seems to know where she’s going. Trees flash by, white smudges in the headlights that brand themselves in my retinae. I squint and close my eyes against the blinding reflectors of a roadside post. It’s only in the blessed darkness that ensues that I realize that my first day at d’Arcas is finally, finally over.

Uh, what time is it?

Better yet: Where am I? I’m lying somewhere cold and hard; my head’s pounding like nobody’s business, and there’s something tickling my face.

A brief struggle later, I crack one eyelid open and confirm that I’m lying on the bathroom floor of the castle’s outbuilding, tangled in a moldy shower curtain. I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and that subtle bouquet of . . . eau de barf? Yep, that’s coming from me. It’s never a good sign when you can smell yourself and the light stabbing your eyeballs tastes like stale booze and cassoulet.

Jesus . . . I wish I could say the hangover wiped all memories of the madness that was yesterday, but I unfortunately remember every second of it. The mountain of garbage in the east wing, Ted, Bidoufle’s leg, Dog’s mazout, and Johnny Hallyday’s complete discography: it’s all clanking back into place as I struggle to my feet with a groan. My thighs are killing me this morning, but that’s what I get for sleeping like this. I’ve got everything I need in the car; I’ll do something about it later.

I drag a hand over my whiskers, meeting my reflection in the spotted mirror of a medicine cabinet. Damn. Gram sometimes says that I look like a young John Schneider—she says the same to my brother even though we look almost nothing alike. This morning, though, I feel more like a badly taxidermized Jan-Michael Vincent. Splashing my face with cold water doesn’t help, but maybe a shower will. Before we get to that, though . . .

I nudge the bathroom door ajar and squint down the hallway. Both bedroom doors are closed. Did Ted leave after all? I step out . . . and into something squishy. A vision of the dog-shit-covered floor of the east wing flashes in my mind before I slowly look down.

Wow. I just stepped on a mini chocolate muffin that had been thoughtfully placed in front of the bathroom door, along with a stack of Kinder Buenos and a glass of water—an offering to a hungover god.

A lopsided grin touches my lips as gulp down the water before setting empty the glass on the sink: Ted was weird, but she’s good people. I mentally wish her a safe trip wherever the hell she went, and make my way down to the living room, a muffin in hand. I’ll fix myself a cup of black if I can find something approaching coffee in the kitchen cupboards, and then I’ll—

All it takes is a shadow at the edge of my peripheral vision, the chilling awareness that I’m not alone. I instinctively reach into my waistband for the CZ I tucked there yesterday and aim it at . . .

Ted.

“Uh, you’re still here?”

“Yes.”

How does she even do that? Second time in twenty-four hours that she catches me totally unawares. All I can do is stand there like a dumbass, muffin in one hand and gun in the other. “Okay . . .”

I set the CZ down on the laminate table, shake my head, and take another bite of muffin. Dammit slept on it and now I’ve got a sore spot where it dug into my back. Good thing I retired, because I was clearly getting too old for that shit anyway. “So,” I mumble through a mouthful of muffin. “Doncha got, I dunno, plans or something?”

“No.” She hasn’t moved from where she’s standing by the stairs. Her arms hang limply by her sides like they did yesterday, but she’s wearing a different T-shirt, and there’s a faint smell of soap floating in the room. Droplets in the sink and on the floor. She must have washed there while I slept in the bathroom.

“Ah. Well, actually I’ve got stuff to do today. I need to make a few calls and head out to a hardware store. Think they’ve got something like the Home Depot around here?” I prattle on as I search the cupboard for coffee, hoping she’ll get the hint and reply something along the lines of “Sure. I, too, have a busy day ahead and will now leave.”

Instead she says, “Bricololand.”

I study her deadpan expression, a jar of instant chicory coffee in my hand—not the hangover cure I need but probably the one I deserve for being a reckless moron. “Thanks, I’ll look into it. Want some?” I nod at the chicory.

She shakes her head and watches me boil some water in a dented saucepan I found under the sink. I was never the kind of guy to enjoy comfortable silence between two people. I need to fill that void and get rid of that prickling feeling of being alone with my thoughts even as someone stands less than three feet from me. “All right,” I begin, pouring hot water over the chicory in a bowl. “First, I need to find a cleaner to deal with that shit show in the east wing. Next, I need to figure out all these French regulations for renovating historical buildings . . .

“And I’m gonna do a bit of fixer-upping in this house, too: Can you believe there’s not even a microwave in here?” Feeling the chicory kick in after only a few gulps, I slam my palm on the table. “You know what, Ted? Today we’re getting some shit done!”

I will get nothing done in this country.

I’ve spent the past two hours since I got out of the shower calling cleaning companies in the area. The only one that might say yes but maybe-ish because the guy is not 100 percent sure or whatever has no opening until next fucking year. We’re in July.

Apparently, we live in a post-COVID world where labor shortage is getting so bad there’s no one willing to make French minimum wage clearing up several tons of junk and dog feces. No, wait—that part actually makes sense.

Still, where does that leave me? Probably to start clearing the east wing myself before a new species of mutant man-eating roach breeds in there. But that’s gonna take some equipment: more hazmat suits, gallons of disinfectant, and something strong enough to nuke every last trace of life from that house. I mutter to myself as I put together a massive shopping list and eventually look up from my phone screen to find that Ted hasn’t moved over the past hour or so. She had a glass of tap water earlier—a welcome reminder that she is, in fact, alive—and she’s been watching me make calls and go nowhere since. All right . . .

“Look, I’ve gotta go out. Want me to drop you off somewhere?”

One blink. Two blinks. Her masseters work like she’s wrestling with words, until . . . “We’re going . . . to Bricololand.”

Hang on. Was that a whole, five-word sentence? And more importantly, there’s a “we” now? I clear my throat. “Well, I did say we, but it was actually more of an I.”

No answer, no discernible reaction. She’s staring at the wall behind me, so I glance over my shoulder just in case. There’s just an ancient grandfather clock next to a framed cross-stitch of a pack of hunting dogs. I return my attention to her. “You still here with me?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still here, period.”

“Yes.”

The ancient clock ticks like it’s counting down to nothing, the stitched hounds forever frozen mid-chase.

I lean back in my tiny creaky chair and cross my arms. “What the hell do you want, Ted?”

That triggers a series of rapid blinks as she seems to process my question. Her brow twitches. Holy shit, did she just kind-of-but-not-really frown? Seconds tick from the clock behind me. I lean forward, fighting the urge to grit my teeth in anticipation. This woman is the physical incarnation of suspense.

“Nothing,” she says at last.

I size her up again, my gaze lingering on a few tears in her leggings I hadn’t noticed, the slight downturn of her full lips. I guess part of me recognized a kindred soul in her from the start, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. “You’ve got no place to go, do you?”

One blink, no answer. We both know I’m not talking about her Airbnb booking that I canceled. Of course, she’s got nowhere to go. Ted is completely lost. And I bet she walked all the way from Toulouse to the middle of nowhere because she had nothing better to do and zero purpose whatsoever. Whatever leash used to hold her has snapped, and now she’s roaming this big, weird world alone. A well-trained dog turned stray.

I sigh and drag a hand over my whiskers. This is a shitty idea. She’s weird and probably a killer. But then again, so am I. “There’s a bit of junk I need to clear from the main building before I can start renovations. Think you could help me with that?”

Her brow does that thing again, an infinitesimal quiver that I now recognize as the vestige of some sort of emotion. “Yes.”

That single word loosens muscles in my shoulders I hadn’t realized were knotted. She was right: there’s a we after all. Ted and I are in this together, and we’ve got a helluva lot of dog shit to pick up.

I spring from my chair and wink at her. “Then what we waiting for?”

“Dammit, Ted, we’re gonna be here all day . . .” I drum my fingers on the handle of our buggy in aggravation as the only available employee at Bricololand shows yet another fridge to a middle-aged guy with a graying mustache and glasses so small they look like he snatched them from the smart Smurf. It’s been a thousand years and approximately five hundred French-door refrigerators. He’s inspected them all, opened every drawer, inquired about energy ratings, and narrowed it down to two fucking identical models, both A-rated. What else do you need to buy a goddamn fridge?

The smart Smurf sniffs around a hulking black Samsung followed by the employee, who looks like every bored twentysomething clerk mashed together. “Non mais ceux-là l’étiquette dit vingt-neuf decibels. Vous en avez pas des pareils, mais qui font vingt-huit?”

You can’t be serious. No one cares about a one-decibel difference in noise! Whatcha gonna do, French Smurf, spend the night in your kitchen with an ear to your fridge? The employee studiously ignores me as I make a show of glancing at my watch. You know what? I’ll ask about microwaves another day. I turn to Ted to tell her just that, only to find her gone.

She was standing right here not a second ago and . . . in the time it takes me to blink and locate Ted right behind the Smurf there’s a muffled groan, a squeak from the employee, and the slam of a chest freezer. I leap to her side to survey the damage. She hauled the Smurf over her shoulder and dropped him into the freezer. He’s unconscious but looks otherwise unharmed—I mean, compared to that pedo serial killer she sent to the ICU last night. “Carotid?” I ask.

She nods. Mental note: whoever trained Ted also did a thorough job of teaching her the wonders of pressure points.

“Thanks for that, but next time let’s discuss our plan before we roll it out.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I turn to the employee and flash her my most boyish smile. If she calls security, I’m gonna have to find another hardware store, and I’ve wasted enough time in here already. “Sorry about that. He’ll be fine. He’s just passed out,” I say in French, patting the freezer.

She inches back from us, rolling terrified eyes at the prone shape visible through the glass lid.

I raise a hand to still her. “Hey, hey, don’t flake out on me”—I scan her name tag—“Manon. We need a little help with our shopping list.”

Manon’s gaze darts left and right, likely in search of a colleague. She’s out of luck: this store is about the same size as a Home Depot with half the staff. You could probably move in here, marry, and have a bunch of kids bunking in the display bedrooms before anyone found out.

“I’m just looking for a good microwave and some equipment,” I croon, motioning for Ted to stay a safe couple of feet behind me.

You know you’re dealing with a true professional when their training kicks in no matter the situation. Manon retains the shivering stance of a deer about to bolt even as she asks, “What’s your budget?”

So Manon is studying to become a teacher here, in Carcassonne, but she found out that teaching sucks and it would actually pay less than selling faucets at Bricololand—she got us a good one for the bathroom, with LED lights that change color depending on water temperature. So now she’s wondering what to do with her life, right? Especially since her sister just had a baby and that kinda made her want one, but her boyfriend is studying journalism a hundred miles from here in Montpellier, so he’s probably gonna end up broke, and they won’t be able to afford a bedroom for the baby.

My takeaway from her life story, to which I’ve been listening for the past hour: Don’t go to college in France even if it’s borderline free. Better yet, be like me and don’t go to college at all. I joined the navy straight from high school and look where that got me: leasing a trailer to transport my 6,000 euros’ worth of appliances and biohazard cleaning equipment. Well, at least now we’ve got a washer-dryer set from this century.

It’s only once we’re done loading all that stuff and I’ve turned on the engine that I have an epiphany. I glance at Ted, who’s being her usual comatose self in the passenger seat. “Hey, Ted.”

No response. I know she heard me though.

“You ever installed a washer?”

“No.” I glance in the mirror at the boxes stacked in the trailer. “Me neither. I guess we’ll figure it out one step at a time.”

“Hairy Dawg to Tea Biscuit. Everything in place in G1?”

“Yes.” Ted’s AI-like voice echoes in my earpiece from the hallway.

“Copy. I’m approaching G9 with the payload.” We’ve divided the house into sectors to chart our cleaning progress. G9 is the kitchen that occupies the southern end of the east wing . . . and today’s mission.

Ted and I have made some good headway over the past couple of weeks. I still have no idea who she is or why she sticks around, but we’re almost done clearing the east wing. We’ve removed several tons’ worth of garbage, one dumpster after another until we were able to see the walls and access the stairs. The good news is that while the first floor is fit for nothing but urbex at this point, the second floor’s ten rooms and the attic are in half-decent shape since the old count and his dogs were no longer going up there. The bad news is that we’ve got more than a few roaches squatting the place, and it’s time to tackle that.

We actually had some fun with them yesterday: we fed the little guys glow stick juice sandwiches, and we got them to glow in the dark in order to map what Gram would call our “Problem areas.” As it is, the 3D map on my laptop suggests that d’Arcas is the problem area. All of it. We tried to name our roaches, too, but we had to give up on that quickly because there’s probably several million of them teeming in every nook and cranny of the house.

But those French cafards don’t know who they’re dealing with. Once they were done stuffing their face with some of the best fried PBJ I’ve ever made—all thanks to the local apricot jam—our glow-in-the-dark assets took us straight to their HQ: the kitchen in the east tower, or what’s left of it under layers and layers of dark-brown grime—cooking grease and cockroach shit by my guess. If you’ve ever played Silent Hill, you know the feel. Anyway, we’ve set more bait to lure everyone out, and the walls . . . Jesus, the walls are fucking moving, crawling.

I can feel lunch’s garlic salami making its way back up as I open the kitchen doors wide and step into Satan’s asshole, payload in hand. I’m playing astronaut in my own kitchen, panting and sweating buckets under my A-grade hazmat and gas mask.

I take slow steps towards the table Ted and I cleared yesterday at the risk of our lives. I swear there were enough empty food cans in here to melt them into a second Statue of Liberty. “Placing the payload,” I rasp, dropping my cargo onto the sticky wood. A one-gallon canister of “EN GUARDE!” taped together with a 50g stick of C4 and a detonator connected to my phone.

“Copy,” Ted confirms.

According to the ad copy, EN GUARDE! will not only instantly obliterate roaches but also contaminate their dead carcasses, which their buddies will subsequently eat because God has long since left this chat. The tower-house’s walls are nearly twenty-inch thick: more than enough to withstand the explosion. I’m probably losing everything else in the kitchen, but a few weeks from now, there won’t be a single thing alive in this house with more than two legs.

Glowing green cockroaches creep across the table to inspect my gift. I allow myself a second to enjoy the sight of them climbing up the canister’s sides before dashing out the kitchen: I’ve got a few climbing up my goddamn legs already. I slam the doors shut and grab the spray foam gun waiting for me in the hallway. Dots of greenish light peek from under the doors, only to be drowned under the copious layer of foam I’m blasting along the jamb. Ain’t no way out of this, bud. My kitchen will be your grave.

“Tea biscuit! Decontamination in H2!” I shout in my mic.

Ted rounds the corner of the hallway and races my way as I finish sealing the doors, barely hindered by her own hazmat. What a goddess. Couldn’t have of dreamed a better partner for this. Less than two seconds later, she’s spraying me all over with roach killer and I watch the last of my assailants fall around me on the crusty floorboards, wiggling in agony.

“G9 is secure. Let’s head out,” I announce.

We jog along grungy walls and worm-eaten woodwork until d’Arcas vomits us out into the sun-drenched courtyard. Once we’re done cleaning the place, I’m redoing it all with PVC molding: I’d like to see worms chew their way through that.

This is bound to be one of life’s finer moments and I intend to properly enjoy it: Ted and I got our hands on a cast iron bistrot table and a pair of chairs that were stored in a stone barn off the driveway. We cleaned the furniture and set it strategically in the courtyard under a parasol and with a direct view of the tower-house. Another of our treasure finds sits on the table: an antique silver champagne bucket filled with ice. We tossed a Cacolac bottle in there for Ted, and a cold one for me.

The summer heat feels like a cooling breeze as I finally strip off my hazmat and watch Ted do the same, stealing a glance at her long legs in a pair of cargo shorts. I plop my myself in a chair with a shit-eating grin and flip out my phone. “Are you ready for the show?”

She sits perfectly straight and stares at the tower-house as I uncap her bottle with mine.  “Yes.”

Cicadas chirp all around us in the fields. I toast Ted while she takes her first sip without acknowledging me. I tap on my phone screen once. The ensuing boom washes over us, rattling the ground and shattering the kitchen windows. Cheers.

Not even a crack in the walls: I knew 50 grams was just right for the job—dosing C4 is an art and I’m . . . well, at the moment, I’m Picasso, assessing the deconstructed ruins of my kitchen, still covered with fluorescent splatter: Guernica, but with cockroaches. Amazingly, some cupboards are still holding to the wall, their splintered doors hanging pitifully from bent hinges. Better start looking for a contractor.

“See anything move?” I ask Ted.

“No.”

I sweep rubble off the way with my foot absently. The tiling pretty much exploded all the way to the walls, exposing the ancient stone slabs underneath, and . . . wood? I step closer. Part of a busted cupboard, maybe? No, there’s cement crusted in it. Floorboards, then? Jesus, come on. Rule #1 of any reno: don’t tile directly over wood.

“Hey Ted, come take a look over here.” I clamp my jaw as I drop to one knee, brushing dust off the tile. I hate kneeling. Ironically, my joints have never been better, but the pressure in my thighs, that split second of uncertainty as I bend, always set my teeth on edge. I don’t think Ted’s ever noticed any of it, but I force a grin anyway. The show must go on.

She joins my side, trailing her fingers through the debris to reveal floorboards sectioned by a suspicious rectangular cut. A floor hatch. My mind immediately starts cataloguing possibilities. Worst-case scenario: more roaches. Best-case: booze, or anything of value.

At any rate, our discovery has taken my mind off the ache in my legs. “Watcha think’s down there?” I ask her, knowing full well that she’s unlikely to answer an open question. “How about we find out?”

“Yes.”

I press my palm to the hatch tentatively. Feels pretty sturdy. I glance up at Ted. “You remember what we did of the sledgehammer?”

A soft “Yes” breezes over her shoulder as she strides out of the kitchen and returns holding the sledgehammer. I’ve seen her use it already to demolish a rotten door a few days ago, and I’ll never tire of the sight. I step back with a grin as she swings it gracefully and slams it down at full strength. The ground shivers under the impact. The hatch door splinters, both halves tumbling down a dark hole. There’s a muted thud before the opening belches a cloud of dust as it digests them.

Ain’t gonna lie: I love where this is going. Most of the discoveries I’ve made in d’Arcas so far I could have easily lived without—I still have mild PTSD from clearing that bathroom down the hall. But anytime Ted and I dig up something actually worth saving, or we find a new room that’s been left untouched for decades, I get excited like a kid playing treasure hunter in the crawl space. There’s probably little more than junk down there, but I won’t pass on the off chance of finding the skeleton of a medieval knight in full armor.

“All right. Let’s see how deep this goes.”

Ted and I switch on our tactical headlamps—it says a lot about the castle’s wiring that these are one of my best investments since moving in. “Looks no more than eight feet down,” I announce, swiping my beam at what might be some sort of cellar, crowded with sheeted furniture. No skeleton in sight. Dammit.

Five minutes later, we’ve got a telescopic ladder in place, and I’m climbing down yet another mysterious hellhole, followed by Ted. Barrel arches support the floor above, and I spot an entire wall of dusty bottles to my left; cellar indeed. I lift the sheet covering a long table to inspect the legs only to let out a low whistle. Where I expected the rough edges of a farm table, there’s intricate woodwork. Nice stuff. More than nice actually, I realize, drawing the sheet some more to reveal an inlaid stone tabletop. Embedded in black marble, chiseled chunks of color form fancy medallions and a snarling lion head. The corner of my lips kicks up: the irony of that particular find isn’t lost on me.

“No sign of mold or rot in the wood,” I tell Ted. “Must be because it’s cooler here than outside, and the air feels pretty dry.”

I start lifting more sheets, uncovering renaissance chairs here, a fancy little gilded desk there. Mirrors, leather-bound books, a veiled marble statue with showstopping tits . . . Each new find sends jolts of excitement down my spine and my legs, to the point where my back starts to ache, as if to warn me that no good thing ever comes without a shot of pain. I block the thought with a powerful whoop that echoes satisfyingly against the ancient stone. “I like where this is going . . . Why d’ya think they stored all this down there?”

Ted remains silent, as expected, but she cranes her neck to look up at hatch opening, haloed in golden light pouring from the ruined kitchen. “It’s too small,” she eventually says.

I blink at her. That wasn’t the answer to my question, but it’s so rare for her to volunteer any kind of unsolicited opinion that I find myself staring up in turn. She’s right. None of the furniture in here could possibly fit through that hatch. But, if you took off all the floorboards surrounding it, you’re left with, what, a 6×12’ hole: more than enough to fit even the tabletop.

I scan the rest of the cellar for a door. Nothing: the only thing that might have qualified is an arch-shaped depression filled with smaller, more recent stonework than the rest of the space. Interesting. “Looks like they walled the cellar door and retiled the kitchen floor to hide it . . .”

Ted’s brow quivers. She blinks repeatedly before turning her gaze to a large collection of gilt China dinnerware wrapped in yellowed newspapers that we found inside an ivory cabinet—probably yet another priceless find.

I thumb the brittle pages laid out between the plates, checking the headlines. Paris Soir, Monday, November 2, 1942: ‘41 Ships Sunk by German Submarines in Toulon,’ November 12: ‘The Fuhrer Speaks to The French People.’ Combat Occitan, November 27: ‘The Gestapo takes its new quarters in Carcassonnes.’

“All of this dates back from WWII.” I ponder. And nothing dated after December ’42.

Now that I think of it, Saint-Clair did mention something over the phone about the old count’s father dying during WWII and the castle being abandoned for a few years when the family fled to Switzerland. In hindsight, I realize that piece of shit told me d’Arcas’s entire history to keep me from asking any relevant questions and better lube me up, but at least now it all makes sense. “I guess the old count’s father had the kitchen remodeled in record time before the Germans showed up, but he died without telling anyone what was down there.”

“Yes.” There’s a soft, meditative quality to Ted’s signature monosyllabic answer. I wonder if the silence of this cramped, dark space is getting to her as it does me.

The dust shimmering in front of me seems to slow down and hang suspended as it dawns on me that we’re in standing in the grave of another man’s memories. His books, his furniture, a globe so old America is in the wrong place . . . all buried here before he sent away his family to die alone among newspapers predicting the end of his world.

Fast forward nearly a century later, and here I am, robbing a treasure I technically own.

I’m caught between anticipation and maybe some guilt as take in all the dusty sheets I’ve yet to lift. Some are wrapped around what must be paintings. I tug at the ropes and layers of fabric protecting a massive frame; my headlamp illuminates lace-covered cuffs, a beautiful face. Ted and I pull the rest of the sheet aside and uncover a pair of full-body portraits: a woman in one of those puffy historical gowns, and a man, both wearing massive ruffs and some serious bling.

Damn. I know shit about art but even I can tell that this wasn’t painted by an amateur. Every fold of silks gleams as if it will crimple if you touch it. The couple’s faces are a stark white, drawing the eye to their glinting gazes.

I shake my head in disbelief. “How much you think all of this can be worth?”

Ted points at the lion table without hesitation. “A million,” then the ivory cabinet. “80,000.”

Wait. What?

She might just as well punched me. I stand dumbfounded among swirling dust motes, waiting for her to go on, maybe to laugh and tell me she’s been messing with my head for the past two weeks and she can actually hold normal conversation. I guess I’ve gotten so used to talking to myself around Ted, to bouncing ideas off her without ever expecting anything back, that I wasn’t prepared for that curveball. Howthe fuck would she even know something like that?

I raise my palms at her, less to slow her than to give myself some time to think. “Hold on, hold on . . . Did you just make those numbers up?”

She stares vacantly at the veiled marble statue. “No.”

“Also, when you say a million, are we talking euros or Zimbabwean dollars here?”

“No.”

“No which?”

“Pounds,” she breathes.

“Great Britain Pounds?” I slowly grit out. Because all a million Lebanese pounds will get you is a medium at Domino’s right now.

One nod.

Jesus f . . . If she’s right, that’s more than what I paid for d’Arcas. “How can you tell? Do you have any experience selling stuff like this?”

“No.”

Man, I hate these guessing games we play, sometime. “Buying?”

“Yes.”

I tilt my head at her. She hasn’t moved away from the statue. If she gets any stiller, I’m gonna need a defibrillator. “You’ve seriously bought antiques worth a million pounds?”

If she has, that’s another piece of the puzzle I have no idea where to place: I’d already figured out that Ted isn’t broke—her black backpack is actually an expensive brand, and I’ve seen her use a credit card a few times to buy stuff from Khadidja’s bakery—‘Vieste Investment Bank’, no visible name or number on it: yet another mystery I’ll have to crack, eventually. But if she is, in fact, loaded, why is she roaming the French countryside alone in ratty clothes?

There’s a tremor in her right hand as she keeps staring into the veiled woman’s unseeing eyes, something so faint I could almost miss it. “Choose one,” she whispers. “Choose the one you like.” Her head starts lolling back and forth. “Choose, choose, choose, choose . . .” She says it over and over, until the words grow brittle and her movements jerky.

What the hell—What’s happening to her?

“Hey, hey . . . Ted.” I don’t dare to touch her; I don’t know what to do. I’m not equipped to help her through this—whatever it is. I eventually brush the back of my knuckles to her bare arm to break her out of her trance.

Her skin is soft as a kitten’s belly, and my hands are basically sandpaper from all the work we’ve been doing. She freezes and shivers, like I just hit a reset button. Shit, did I make it worse?

I snatch my hand back, hanging onto each of her quiet exhales. I don’t know what it says about me that I feel like I committed some sort of crime touching her like that. Probably that I need to get laid and see a therapist again.

“Hey, you okay?” I keep my voice low, coaxing. “Still with me?”

One, two blinks, and then, the usual, “Yes.”

My shoulders sag in absurd relief that she’s back to her normal robotic self. “All right, you know what? Why don’t we call it a day and tomorrow we’ll work on cutting open that kitchen floor.”

She nods.

“Hey, Ted?”

No response. Good, that’s my girl right here.

“Wanna hit that kabob truck in Carcassonnes?”

This time she grips the ladder’s sides decisively and steps on the first rung. “Yes.”

“Coming up! You ready?”

“Yes,” Ted answers from the kitchen above, as dispassionate as ever.

I flip on a switch and rise from the depths of my cellar, clutching the bubble-wrapped tits of the veiled statue. I had to rent a scissor lift for this—thanks, Bricololand—and that’s not even the piece de resistance. No, the apex of this carefully planned operation is the forklift awaiting our one and half ton babe.

My grin widens at the sight of Ted in the driver’s seat of our three-wheeled monster. Rated for up to 4,000 lbs, fully lithium-powered, top speed: a face-melting 22mph. Trust me, the maker didn’t slap those racing stripes over the orange paint for nothing.

“All right, easy, easy . . .” I step down from the lift platform as Ted maneuvers the fork tines into place. She’s good at that too: she’s got a patient, steady hand. Pallet wood groans as the statue’s weight gets transferred over to the forklift. “Perfect, now step down. It’s my turn to drive.”

Ted remains frozen in the seat.

The corners of my mouth swing down. “Hey, we’ve been through this already. We had a deal: you did the paintings and the table, now I get to do the statue.”

A couple of blinks, a low sigh. Her gaze subtly avoids mine as her hands linger on the wheel.

I creep closer. “Ted . . .”

“No.”

The manual said it: the X9000 allows for unmatched manoeuverability and fast, 360 degrees steering. Ted backs up, spins the forklift with surgical precision, and floors it—statue and all—before I can say another word.

“Get the hell back here!” I race after her out of the kitchen, but she loses me in d’Arcas’s cavernous entry hall. I was cleared for running a couple of months ago, and I’m fast on my legs, but not Usain-bolt—or Ted on a forklift—fast. I slow down to a lazy, dejected jog to cover the last fifty feet to the grand salon, where we’ve been storing all our discoveries.

At nearly a thousand square feet, it’s the largest room in the castle, and the one that took us the longest to clear. There’s still a faint funk clinging to the walls, where painted cherubs peek through layers of grime. Yet another entry on my to-do list: call someone to get those walls cleaned up and save the paintings if we can. And look up how to reupholster furniture, I mentally add, eying the bones of a pair of once-gilt sofas. Ted and I ripped away every last ounce of fabric and stuffing from the cushions, and boy was there life in those—an entire self-sustaining ecosystem, in fact.

She’s stopped the forklift and lowered the statue next to the tabletop and paintings.

“In bird culture, that’s considered a dick move,” I inform her as she leaps to the ground like a surly cat. “Now, gimme a hand removing some of that bubble wrap. Saint-Clair will be here soon, but we can still get some work done ‘til then.”

Took that piece of shit notary long enough to email me back, and even longer for him to actually agree to meet me face to face. Granted, that gave me ample to do all the thinking I should have done before e-signing the deed. He’d better be prepared for this, because I sure am . . .

As I mull over my real estate woes, Ted whips out a box cutter and slices down the front of the statue’s wrapping without so much as grazing the milky marble underneath. I don’t know if I should be happy or freaked out that she’s so good with a blade.

The afternoon sun filters through the dingy windows, casting long shadows across the grand salon as we work on unwrapping each piece. I snap glances at my watch, the muscles in my shoulders knotting in mild annoyance. Saint-Clair should have been here at four: almost half-an-hour ago. I’m pretty laid-back about a lot of things, but I’m anal about being on time. In my book, if you’re not here fifteen minutes early and already reconing the place, you’re late. And if he decided to skip on our appointment . . . Lawd help him.

Just as I’m about to take my phone and call him, the sound of an engine rumbles our way. I left the gates open: a silver Porsche convertible noses into the courtyard in a cloud of dust. Ted and I flick our cutters shut and watch the guy park in front of us.

The drivers’ door opens to let out a pointy loafer, then the rest of the body attached to it, all angles half-concealed by a billowing white shirt and scarf—in this weather? Dude thinks he’s an anime character. Other than that, he looks pretty much the same as he did during our vidcalls: tanned, with dark, glossy hair he must spend hours on. Age: anywhere between K-pop star and sixty.

He lowers his sunglasses and extend his hand. “M. Stiles, in the flesh! Or should I say . . . Monsieur le Comte?” And of course, he’s doing the French throaty voice thing. All the French chefs Gram watches on YouTube do it, too.

“Long time no see, Saint-Clair.” I intentionally crush his knuckles into my dusty grip.

He takes it without flinching: if he does all his clients like he did me, he’s probably used to worse welcomes. “Call me Gabriel! And who’s our stunning countess?” He aims a smile at Ted.

She stares past him as he weren’t even there. Ted rarely answers unless addressed directly. Third person won’t cut it if he wants to rizz her.

I take over, as I’ve grown accustomed to. “Ted is . . .” What is she, really? Not an employee: I’m not paying her—but I should. ‘Friend’ feels odd, like I’m at once overstepping and relegating her to something lesser. “My partner, I eventually say. We’re renovating the castle together.” Partner sounds—feels—right: she’s had my back ever since we met. Plus, I’ve decided to split the profits of our treasure hunt with her. She never asked for a cut, but she’s more than earned it after everything she’s done. I’m not going to tell her just yet though—not after that stint with the forklift anyway.

Saint-Clair sucks in his cheeks in fake awe. “You’re renovating? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, it’s a bit a fixer, don’t you think?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

To his credit, the man is made of waxed tungsten: shit seems to just glide off him. He shrugs my question off. “Oh, these old houses: you never know what you’ll find.”

Cicadas stop chirping. I can almost hear them going: Gang said what?

I register a soft click at my side. Ted just flicked out her box cutter. “Nah,” I whisper. “Not without tarp.”

If she doesn’t get the joke, he’s probably dead, because I’m not sure I have it in me to stop her. Another click; the blade retracts. Either she got it or she’s actually waiting for a better opportunity to carve him up cartel-style.

Blissfully unaware that his entire life just flashed by him, Saint-Clair glances over my shoulder at the east wing. “Superbe, hein? It’s an integral piece of French history you’ve bought.”

“Speaking of history,” I begin coolly. “Remember that video you sent me, the virtual tour?”

He purses his lips. “Maybe?”

“Remind me again when it was shot?”

“I’m not sure when I last visited d’Arcas. Maybe a couple of years ago?” Interrogative lilt, fast blinking. Wrong answer.

A cool breeze sweeps over the courtyard as I correct him. “Twelve years and four months ago.”

Ain’t hindsight a bitch: I banged my head against the desk after I rewatched the video and every detail I had missed the first time jumped at me: Saint-Clair’s voice, smoother—younger by twelve years—the Mercedes CLS parked in the courtyard—2010 model—the footage’s resolution, bitrate, and FPS—all much lower than what you’d get with the average phone today. I still can’t believe I missed it all.

Saint-Clair clears his throat. “Well, that . . . surprises me since I visited the family regularly, but you seem sure of yourself.”

I crack my neck. I’ve got my clamps on his balls. Time to turn up the voltage. “Nah, Gabe, what’s surprising is that you couldn’t find any recent footage for your bullshit virtual tour.” Before he can reply, I press on. “Got something to say about the pictures? The ones from 2007?”

Now his billowing shirt and scarf just look floppy, and he takes a step back even though Ted and I haven’t moved from our spot. “Listen, Virgil, I did hear from Jean-Kevin that there was some confusion on your end regarding what we call vente en l’état. I thought you understood French, and perhaps I should have clarified that—”

“T’inquiètes, je comprends parfaitement le français, même les petits caractères.” Don’t worry, I understand French perfectly, even the small print.

And that was my mistake: I did read the small print, and I understood it, but I chose to trust the pics and the vids he sent me. I wanted that ice cream so bad I jumped straight into the back of the pedo van.

Taken aback by the switch to his native language, Saint-Clair backs up some more until his heels hit the open window’s stone step. “Do you mind if I take a tour, to . . . assess the situation?”

I smirk. “Not at all. Treat yourself.”

Ted and I trail behind him as he steps into the grand salon . . . and stops. His confident expression sours.

“Yeah, the smell won’t go away,” I remark conversationally. “The dogs shit all over the place for years, apparently.”

He clears his throat. “Really? I wasn’t aware . . .”

“Save it,” I reply, advancing toward him to force him farther into the house. He sold it, he’ll see, and he’ll smell it. All of it. “Go on, take a look around.”

I thought he’d keep walking, but his gaze zeroes in on our uncovered haul, gathered along a wall—the statue, the table, the paintings. His bulletproof grin returns. “Really nice. Did you find all of this in the castle?”

Borrowing a page from Ted’s book, I choose to ignore the question. I want him on pins and needles.

“May I?” He motions to our finds after that uneasy beat of silence.

I shrug one shoulder. “Sure.”

His swinging stride slows down to a prowl as he takes in the antiques. He sniffs around the veiled statue, then the inlaid stone table. “One of my friends has one. They’re usually made in Turkey or India these days.”

From the corner of my eye, I register Ted’s fingers curling up. “Italy,” she murmurs.

Saint-Clair whips around and combs back a glossy lock behind his ear. “You think it’s Italian? You should have it appraised.” He flips out his phone, taps something and shows me his screen, now populated with thumbnails of tables that look kind like mine—I make a mental note that he calls it a pietra dura—“See?” He taps one of the pics. “Early 20th century, and it’s worth over 5,000 euros.”  

I quirk my lips before he catches any disappointment on my face. That sure sunk my hopes, but not as much as Ted’s: her jaw is clenched tight, a muscle twitching under golden-brown skin. The faintest crease appears between her eyebrows: the closest to a frown I’ve ever seen from her. The tics in her jaw increase as if she’s caught in some internal struggle, like she’s wrestling with words that just won’t come out. She shakes her head once—did she give up?

No. She walks over to the table and points down at the elaborately carved stretcher supporting the table. There’s a funny coat of arms in the center, basically just a shield and six juggling balls popping out of it.

Awkward seconds tics by as Saint-Clair bends to follow the direction of her gaze. “What is it?”

I join her side cautiously. This feels like a replay of her bug back in the cellar. “Ted?” I venture.

She closes her eyes. Her head lolls briefly as she were about to fall asleep right here and now, but I’ve got a hunch that she’s just trying to relax, to focus. I know it by now, the best way to pry something out of Ted is to give her the time and space she needs to let it out on her own. So, I do, aware of Saint-Clair’s weirded out stare. He’ll have to be patient and expect nothing, as I’ve learned to.

She releases a sharp breath, recovering her vacant and steady expression. “Medici,” she says, her finger still aimed at the coat of arms.

My eyebrows shoot up. Damn. If my table is actually a Medici heirloom, it’s centuries old and likely worth a lot more than a few thousand euros . . .

Saint-Clair barks a laugh that makes my neck itch. “Oh, we all wish we had a Medici table collecting dust in our attic, but you’ll find that coat of arms on everything in Florence, including mugs made in China.”  He shakes his head and gives me a conniving eyeroll. “She’s a little special, isn’t she?”

Bitch, you didn’t . . .

My molars grind together as the words leave his mouth. At this point, I’m sorely tempted to just ask Ted to unbox him and leave some for me when she’s done. But I must, once more, be the goddamn adult in the room. “Ted knows what she’s talking about,” I reply coolly. And even if she doesn’t, I’ll have an expert take a second look.

Ted lowers her arm, but I could swear an angry glint lingers in her eyes.

Meanwhile, Saint-Clair has turned to the paintings. Shock registers on his face the moment he takes his first good look at the woman’s enigmatic smile.

“These were in the castle?” He asks, as if that wasn’t obvious. There’s an odd inflexion to his voice, like he’s swallowed a bird whistle.

I give a noncommittal shrug.

“Do you mind if I take a picture?” he urges, raising his phone. “I have a friend who could—”

“Actually, I mind.” Not sure what he’s seeing that I’m not, but that tells me these are definitely worth getting appraised.

Regardless, I’m getting tired of humoring that sack of shit. I cross my arms as Ted joins my side, looking like a max security correction officer when the cameras are out. “Now, if you don’t mind, let’s get to how you’re gonna compensate me for this trainwreck, cause from the numbers I’ve been crunching, I’ve got some costly repairs ahead of me if I even want to make this place livable, let alone look like a castle.”

His eyebrows jump, and I could swear he’s about to bullshit me again about how I didn’t read the fine print when he spews out the words I least expected to hear. “Do you want to cancel the sale?”

“No.” That soft rejection came from Ted. I didn’t even have time to open my mouth.

Saint-Clair squints. “I beg your pardon?”

I raise my palms, both to stay her and signal that the question was actually mine to answer. Taking the hint, she averts her gaze with a slight downturn of her lips that I now recognize as churlishness.

Meanwhile, Saint-Clair awaits my answer with raised eyebrows.

Would I want to cancel if it were possible? We’re well past the ten days allowed by French law, and something tells me he’ll only try to fuck me a second time, only deeper. Hidden fees, a surprise bankruptcy just when I’m supposed to get my money back: the possibilities are endless, and I’m tired just thinking of every stunt he might pull on me.

My gaze drifts down to his hands, that ends with longish and well-manicured nails. Then again, I could always break the fingers in his left hand and have him wire my money with the right one. Who am I kidding? I can get my dough back anytime if I want to. Actually, I could have done it weeks ago, right after Jean-Kevin tossed me my house keys wearing a hazmat.

But I didn’t. Because this is my mess. My home. I sigh, smiling for no particular reason. “Nah. I’m keeping the house, and you owe me for cleaning and repairs. I want 20%.”

He rolls his eyes left and right as if he expects a hidden camera crew to pop up any seconds. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m following . . . 20% of what?”

“Sale price.”

He barks high-pitched laughter. “Mr. Stiles, French laws don’t work that way.”

Mr. Stiles, huh? Not Virgil anymore . . . “I know how they work,” I reply, feeling a genuine grin return to my face. It’s been too long since I’ve been anywhere close to my comfort zone. I guess I needed that. “And I don’t give a shit. Because where I come from, when we’ve got a problem with someone, we don’t go to no judge.”

Next to me, Ted flicks out her cutter blade just in case he didn’t catch my drift.

Saint-Clair pretends to choke in outrage, but I don’t miss the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Excuse me? Are you threatening the d’Arcas family?”

“Nah, just you.” I doubt the old count’s even older sisters were in on this. They didn’t even sign the deed themselves: they gave Saint-Clair a power of attorney to rep them.

He holds out a forefinger at us, as if that could stop Ted. “Very well. I will pretend I didn’t hear any of this. In the meantime, I advise you to take some time to reconsider my offer to cancel the sale.”

“No.” Ted states for the second time, without meeting my gaze. She shuffles her feet apart and lowers her shoulders. A combat stance.

This time, however, we’re in agreement. “The door is right behind you,” I tell Saint-Clair. “And you’ve got a week to wire me my 20% before I show up in Marseilles to collect.”

“Listen, I think it’s best I leave and give you time to think with a cool head . . .” he blabbers, backing out of the still open French doors.

I bend to whisper in Ted’s ear as Saint-Clair turns on his heels. She nods and strides out of the grand salon, disappearing into the hallway.

“Let’s keep in touch,” I tell Saint-Clair with a little phone gesture as he climbs into his gleaming Porsche.

His look of outrage tells me he ain’t gonna call. That’s okay, I can turn up the heat on him bit by bit, starting with this . . . We both snap our heads at the sound of wheels speeding over the courtyard’s gravel. Pebbles tinkle against the Porsche’s body, projected by the forklift as it rushes our way. Ted’s got this down to a science: the tines are angled just right, and, oh boy . . . the hideous creak of that steel prong as it rakes along the car’s entire side, wrecking the paint and biting through the butter-soft aluminum underneath.

Now that’s my kind of ASMR: I’ve got chills running down my spine and a happy grin on my face. “Ted,” I chide. “Look what you just did.” Exactly what I expected her to.

“Putain, Putain!” Fuck, fuck! Saint-Clair’s voice comes in panicked pants as he leans out to check the damage. He looks up, rolling wide, furious eyes at me. “Mais enfin, ça va pas la tête? On est ou, là?” Are you crazy? What is this place?

I just wink at him. It’s only when Ted starts to back up for a second pass that he finally does what he should have much sooner: hit the gas and drive the fuck off.

As the disfigured Porsche roars out of the gate and disappears down the trail in a cloud of dust, Ted stares me down from her noble steed. Do I detect a hint of gratitude in her deadpan expression? Must be a trick of the late afternoon light. My lips quirk as I replay in my head the words I whispered to her earlier. You’ve got my blessing to do absolutely everything you want with that forklift over the next two minutes.

Ain’t Monsieur le Comte a sight? Joel got me a free Ricard t-shirt from his rep. I just showered, but with my five day’s scruff, I look like an authentic pilier de comptoir: a forlorn guy nursing a cheap lager at the counter of a French dive bar. Which sounds about right: tonight, I’m taking Ted to Joel’s for a cassoulet-frites and probably one too many mazouts.

The guy looking back at me in the mirror wears a stupid grin even though no one’s looking and there’s no role to play: a rare occurrence for him. I guess life ain’t so bad these days. True, Saint-Clair’s visit wasn’t exactly the highlight of my week, but I’m not done with him just yet . . . and I got a kick from ruining his car. I’m also curious to hear what an expert will say of my table and paintings. More importantly, I got to ride the forklift after he took off. Ted watched me, envy oozing from her frozen facial features, and I enjoyed every second of her torment.

I muss my hair dry with a towel before tossing it onto a hook on the wall. Her bottle of shower gel stands on the edge of the tub. She got it last week; I’d noticed she was washing with the sliver of soap that sits by the kitchen sink, and when it fell apart, she started using my bottle of body wash. I didn’t think she needed to smell like 6-in-1 Panty-dropping Sandalwood, so while we were grocery shopping, I told her to grab something for herself. She just stood in front of the shelves, arms hanging at her sides. Choice paralysis—I get that feeling too when I’m staring down twenty types of toothpaste.

I looked at the array of scents, or rather, flavors—Coconut Soufflé, Banana Parfait, Mango Pudding or whatever—and I said, “Which would you eat?” She grabbed Vanilla Buttercream. The sweet aroma lingers in the bathroom’s damp air. She smells good with that stuff. I cope a whiff when she walks by in the morning. Does that make me a creep? Maybe, but I’m still leagues behind Narcisse Bidoufle.

My legs don’t hurt tonight, even though we’ve been working all day. I’m still not entirely sure how this ended up being my life, but I find I could get used to it.

“You ready?” I ask Ted as I step out of the bathroom.

“Yes.” She’s waiting by the staircase, wearing her black t-shirt and cargo shorts—French army surplus, if I’m not mistaken.

“You know what? We need to ask Joel if he can get you a Cacolac shirt.”

A firm nod. Yep, food’s always the way through to Ted. As we jog down the stairs the hum of one—no, make that two—engines rumbles from the courtyard. Oh, what now? My stomach is growling and there’s a plate of cassoulet with my name on it at Joel’s. I don’t have time for whatever this is.

By the time we close the door behind us, two brand-new Range Rovers are idling in front of the house, their black bodies casting long blueish shadows in the sunset. Italian plates, run-flat tires, fully tinted windows—illegal, by the way, but I doubt our visitors care.

I glance at Ted, half-hoping she’ll retreat inside the house. As expected though, she stands her ground at my side, still as a pointer.

Four doors open and spit out as many guys with sunglasses and the kind of mugshot that screams, ‘I’ve got an Interpol red notice the size of an Apple user agreement.’ Boots crush the gravel as they spread out. One of them steps forward—funny how the pack leader is often the shortest. He rolls his neck to signal he could judo me dead any second—he can’t—and hooks his thumbs in the waist of his jeans. “Monsieur le Comte d’Arcas?” He’s polishing every syllable, but the accent is pure French ghetto.

“That would be me,” I say in French with my friendliest grin.

“My employer would like to invite you for dinner.”

Well, well . . . Looks like tonight’s menu just changed. Did Saint-Clair hire some muscle to settle the score over a scratched car? Possible, depending on the kind of crowd he runs with. I can probably play dumb for another two to three minutes before one of them pulls a gun—long enough to figure out who they are and what they want. “Really? Sounds great. We were just about to head out for a bite. May I ask who I’m speaking to, by the way?”

The guy behind him—6’2”, muscular arms, but a bit of a muffin top under his black t-shirt—balances himself from one foot to the other and sniffs in guise of an answer. There’s a whole art to the threatening sniff that I’ve never been able to master. Personally, I usually just try to be nice until I’m not.

“Do I need to change into something fancier?” I hedge. I can think of a hundred people I’ve wronged over the course of my career, but not so much in Southern Europe. That’s actually one of the reasons I decided to retire here: I’ve dealt most of my worst damage in Africa, the Middle East, and to a lesser extent, Russia and Central Asia.

The pack leader’s jaw works as if he were chewing something. He wordlessly motions to the SUV he just stepped out of. “No need for that. You’re coming with us.”

Well, ain’t that peachy . . .

Next to me, Ted hasn’t moved, but the subtle flex of her fingers tells me she’s coiled like a spring and about to show me exactly how she turned Bidoufle into modern art. I give her the slightest shake of my head as the men move to round us toward the car like cattle destined to the slaughterhouse. I’m not carrying, neither is she, and my Jeep is parked over fifty yards away across the courtyard: too many unknown variables to play hero here.

To my relief, her stance relaxes a fraction.

That’s right, let’s play it easy. If it comes to a fight, I prefer close quarters to an open field. Plus, I might as well figure out what they want and face the music right now, because in my experience, men like that don’t just give up. They stick to your heel like gum. And I should know: I used to be the kind of guy who shows up at your door and goes, “My employer wants to see you.”