She longed to call Andy, the only person who understood her, who could reassure her. But she didn’t dare challenge Jordan’s authority.

  While the train made its way to France, a message from Mia White showed up on her mobile. Hello, Clarissa! How are you? I hope the heat wave wasn’t too much of an ordeal. Do let me know how you are. See you soon, Mia.

  Mia White! The mere name incensed her. Indeed, that phony Mia White had duped her, with her fake social media feed, starstruck gaze, and sham smile. She doubtless knew exactly where Clarissa was, what she was doing right now. Clarissa’s mobile was probably geolocated. Mia White was working full throttle behind her screens, tracking every single move, reporting back to Dr. Dewinter: Clarissa Katsef went to London to see her father. She’s on the StarExpress getting in at Gare du Nord at 20:08.

  She obliterated the text angrily without responding to it.

  When she arrived at the residence a few hours later, she rode the elevator up, incapable of mounting the eight flights. The apartment seemed more silent and intimidating than usual. She put her bag down in the entry. Should she tell Adelka she was back, go fetch the cat?

  She found herself unable to move forward, as if her entire body was on alert. There was a lump in her throat; a feeling of dread and queasiness taking over. She locked herself up in the toilet, her only refuge. She stayed there, standing up, for a long time, until she felt her heartbeat slow down.

  She kept dwelling on Jordan’s words. That’s all in your head, Mums. This is a depression. Was the breakup with François, the shock of his betrayal, truly the trigger to her turmoil? Was her son’s name whispered in the night all a dream? Or worse still, was that her own voice, and not Elise Delaporte’s?

  She understood, clearly, while she was still secluded, that she could not stay a single minute more in this apartment. It was all over.

  Flee. Skedaddle. Everything she needed was in her travel bag, the one she had prepared this morning for London. There were no belongings here that meant anything to her.

  Escape. Scram. The cat was with Adelka.

  She knew where to go. It was obvious. She’d go there.

  Now. Bolt, right now.

  She came out of the confined space, bracing against the uneasiness that gripped her. She loathed this place. How had she ever agreed to settle down here? How had she lasted two months? At what cost?

  She took her mobile from her bag and placed it on the kitchen table. She headed toward the front door, put her hand on the doorknob to pull it open. It seemed blocked. She placed her index finger on the glass square to unlock it.

  Nothing happened. She tried again.

  The door remained shut.

  “Open the door!” she said firmly.

  A sentence showed up on the control panel.

  You forgot your mobile phone in the kitchen.

  She nearly spat out “What’s my bloody phone got to do with you?”

  She forced herself to sound neutral.

  “I’m just going down to see a neighbor. I don’t need my mobile. Open up.”

  Had “they” guessed she was going to run for her life? Were “they” going to keep her here against her will? What would she do if that were the case?

  That barred door. She gave it a shove. Nothing happened.

  “Open this door!” she yelled.

  Please put your index finger on the glass square.

  She did as she was told. Her hand felt unsteady. She was going to go absolutely mad if she wasn’t able to get out of here.

  Still nothing. She whacked the bottom of the door with a bad-tempered kick.

  “Open!”

  This time, she let out a yell of rage. “They” were doing this on purpose, right? “They” were pushing her to her limits, as usual, so as to test her reactions, so as to use them? She itched to stamp her feet, like a child. She couldn’t stand it any longer. Total despondency took over.

  “Please open the door,” she muttered, her forehead stuck to the wooden paneling. “Please, I beg you.”

  With a click, the door opened. Clarissa yearned to make an extravagant gesture of victory. Not in front of the camera. She was leaving. Leaving! She’d notify Adelka later. She fished around her bag, pulled out a scarf, wrapped it around her head. She felt lighter and lighter as she flew down the steps.

  Down in the lobby, the main egress swung open.

  The mechanical voice announced, “Good-bye. The C.A.S.A. residence looks forward to seeing you again.”

  She felt like singing at the top her lungs: You bet! You’re not going to be seeing me for a while! You’re no longer going to watch every step I take. You won’t tarnish my dreams, filch my ideas, play with my moods, sprinkle fairy dust in my tea. Ciao! Auf Wiedersehen! Adios!

  She rushed to the nearest Métro station. She felt quite naked without her mobile phone. For the past thirty-five years, she calculated, she’d always had one with her, a reassuring, everyday item that was part of her everyday life. Her panic-stricken feeling was laced with liberty. She was free. Free! No one could find her. Later, when “they” had examined the surveillance videos, it would become clear the hasty person leaving the premises, whose face was covered by a scarf, was indeed Clarissa. By then, she’d be far away.

  Entirely reconstructed after the attack, the Bir-Hakeim Métro station drew all eyes with its black-and-gray neoclassical lines. Clarissa was held up for a while, as she had to buy a ticket at a self-service terminal, since her Métro pass was on her phone. She set off to the Gare Montparnasse, only a few stops away.

  Once she got there, she checked departing trains on the display panel. She blessed the fact night trains had become operational again, facilitating travelers working to reduce their carbon footprint, encouraging them not to depend solely on planes, cars, or buses. That particular mode of transport had been on a roll for the past couple of years; derelict lines had even been reopened. She acquired a sleeping berth on the train she wanted, and got agitated when she had to pay, another thing she was used to doing with her phone. Thankfully, one could still use a credit card. The train was leaving in less than two hours, and due to arrive at 6:27 tomorrow morning. There were several stops en route.

  She had time to grab a bite to eat. She entered a shop to buy a snack and something to read. She chose a paperback by one of her author friends, a kindhearted man she’d often met up with some years ago, until he won a prestigious literary prize and became bigheaded. He was younger than Clarissa, his smile beaming out from the book cover. Clarissa had never been jealous of other authors’ success. She had come late to writing and to publication, already in her fifties. She admired authors who began to write when they were children, such as Virginia Woolf and Romain Gary.

  The ambitious renovation work planned for the Gare Montparnasse, expected to be completed five years ago, was still not finished. In the past decade, the attack had initiated an overall freeze of most Parisian construction sites. Enormous delays had built up. The Gare Montparnasse was still as drab, gloomy, and grimy as ever; penetrated by drafts in wintertime, and suffocating in summer. Clarissa found a place to sit down and eat her sandwich. She caught herself looking for her phone yet again, this time to listen to music.

  In her mind’s eye, she could see her father in his modern hospital, a décor from a futuristic movie. When she was on her way out, he had exclaimed, “Now, now, darling, no more glum faces; don’t forget to smile!” Classic. Where did that tenacious buoyancy come from? She had never heard her father complain, lament, or regret anything. She longed to call him, or send him a message.

  It was time to board. Clarissa had picked a “Ladies Only” sleeper compartment. Four berths per cabin. The train was a recent model, with a sober design. She greeted her sister travelers for the night, who responded with a nod or a smile. They were all absorbed by their mobiles. Later, their tickets were verified. One of the women was getting off at the same stop as Clarissa. The train was going all the way to the border.

  She hadn’t told anyone about this trip. She’d written the address in her notebook so she wouldn’t forget it: 70 Chemin du Port. Apartment 28. 6th floor, right.

  At sundown, the night-lights switched on. The travelers lay on their bunks. The train thrust into the darkness.

  Sleep eluded Clarissa. Her thoughts kept wandering to her father, to Jordan’s hurtful words, to Andy.

  Had her absence been noticed? Her guess was that Jordan hadn’t yet found out, and probably thought her upset mother was not answering her phone because of their conversation at the tearoom.

  For a long while, Clarissa read. The book was entertaining, well written, penned with spirited ruthlessness; the story of a woman falling in love with her new son-in-law. She ended up dropping off, rocked by the train’s motion.

  Someone grazed her arm. It was one of the women traveling with her.

  “We’re arriving soon. I think you’re headed here, as well? You were sleeping so soundly.”

  Clarissa thanked the considerate lady. She barely had time to braid her hair, wash her hands, and straighten her clothes before the train halted. She followed other passengers up to the main exit. She asked one of them where Chemin du Port was. A couple of minutes away, she was told. But she hadn’t expected the walk up to be so steep. She soon found herself out of breath. She reached a bridge crossing the railway tracks. In front of her was a small building with a signpost reading SURF SCHOOL in French, and on her left, a hotel and row of plane trees.

  The weather was sunny, the spot charming and peaceful. Red-and-white half-timbered houses looked out upon the ocean’s immensity. The air smelled of salty sea spray; above her head, gulls circled and cried.

  It was still early—too early to go there yet. She decided to stop at the nearby hotel terrace for a cup of tea. A few cars drove by; an occasional pedestrian passed along. She knew from Andy that the traffic here, in the heat of summer, was dreadful.

  She was served tea and a croissant. Had it been the right thing to do, come all the way here? There didn’t seem to be any other place. No other person she wanted to be with.

  François’s letter was still in her bag. The moment had come. She opened it. Several pages covered with his regular handwriting. Not many words had been crossed out.

  Clarissa,

  You’re not answering anything. Anything at all. So I thought I’d write this the old-fashioned way. Good old pen to paper. Envelope and stamp. Like when we were young. When letters still meant something. When we knew what handwriting looked like. When we waited for the postman and when we knew how to wait. I know it’s too late. I know I’ve lost you. I know you are never coming back. I’m writing this in our apartment, the one we bought together, the one you chose. Sometimes I can’t quite believe you’ve gone. So much of you is still here. Your clothes. Your books. Your objects. And yet you’ve given up your home, this place you loved. I remember you saying you adored being here, the way the sun lit up the living room at the end of the day. How much you enjoyed working here. I have many memories of you. Everywhere I look, I see you. This is where we lived and loved, for all those years. A part of you is still here, within these walls.

  Why won’t you speak to me? Since that ghastly evening when you sent me the photo, you have hardly talked to me. I can’t tell you how I felt when I received that photo on my phone. I broke down in tears. I left our friends’ house in a panic and I came home to wait for you. I was ready to talk to you, to face your anger, your repulsion. But when you arrived, you didn’t even look at me. You acted like I wasn’t there. Like I didn’t exist. You went straight to our bedroom and you started to pack. I asked you where you were going, what you were going to do, and you remained silent. I pleaded, I begged, but you took off. I don’t know where you went that night. I sent you all those messages you never answered. I went to the residence often, got kicked out by the guards, and one day you finally came down and you were so abominably cold. Do I deserve this, Clarissa? Do I deserve the way you are treating me? I’m not asking for a second chance. I know I haven’t got one. I just want you to understand. That’s all I’m asking.

  Hear me out, please. Please read what I have to say. Don’t crumple this letter up and throw it away. This is extraordinarily difficult to write. I want to start from the beginning. I’m no writer and I have none of your skills.

  I first heard about the brothels fifteen years ago. There was one that opened up not far from Montparnasse. Perhaps you remember. There were quite a few articles. I was curious. I wanted to try one out. Should I have told you? Maybe. But we were going through a difficult time then. I knew what I’d already put you through. And so, when I went there, I figured I didn’t need to tell you about it. And honestly, I thought I’d only end up going once or twice. I had no idea how addictive it was going to be. For all these years, I’ve been trying to tell you. I was never able to. In the end, I always said I’d been having affairs with more women. I wasn’t. I was lying. I was going there. To the dolls. I was going there twice a week, even more.

  I was expecting a sleazy, sordid place. But everything was clean, bright, and tidy. I saw no one, because you reserve online and you are given a code. You use that code to get in. You have a room number and you go to that room. From the start, I experienced pleasure. I never felt I was doing something deeply wrong, because to me, I wasn’t being unfaithful to you. This was a doll. A toy. Not a woman. Not a human being. A sex toy. A silicone doll.

  For about a year, I continued going to the brothel in the fourteenth arrondissement. Once, I bumped into the owner as I was leaving. A young guy, in his thirties. Polite and respectful. He said he was having trouble with the police. The people in the building weren’t happy about his business. He said he couldn’t understand. The men coming here were courteous and discreet. Couples came, too, he said. There were four female dolls to choose from. He had a male doll, too, at one point, but he told me it was hardly ever hired. You could pick an Oriental doll, a dark-skinned one, a Caucasian one, and a smaller one, apparently, that looked like a very young teenager, almost a child. The guy told me the problem came from that doll. I asked why. He told me, in all honesty, that the child doll was the most popular one in the brothel. He hardly had time to clean it properly for the next client. He said he believed the child doll was helping to keep pedophiles off the streets. It was safer, according to him, to let men with those predispositions interact with the doll and rid themselves of their unnatural inclinations. I don’t know, Clarissa, if he was wrong or right. I have no idea. I never used that doll. All I know is that he had to close down his brothel because of protests concerning the child doll. He began another business near République, and I went there, for some time. I found out similar brothels were opening up in Brussels, Barcelona, Madrid, so I went there when I traveled for my job. You never knew.

  You could say I was hooked. It was like a drug. For fifteen years, Clarissa, I hid this from you. I let a chasm open up and grow between us. You were wrapped up in your writing, and hypnosis helped you get over your grieving. Once your first book was published, I felt you needed me less. You weren’t distant, not at all, don’t get me wrong, but you were leading your own life. You were independent. I didn’t know where I stood with you. We had little intimate time together. When I first met you, you were fragile and touching. You were such a sad person. You were desperate. You let me help you. I was there to take care of you, and I loved doing that. Things became different. You turned out to be tougher than me. You blossomed into a strong woman who doesn’t need her husband as much. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself, that’s how I consoled myself.

  I felt we were leading two separate lives, and it saddened me. I often tried to explain that to you, but you didn’t, or wouldn’t, understand. I’m not blaming you, Clarissa. I’m blaming myself. I sometimes wonder if deep down inside, you’re perhaps still in love with Toby and you don’t even know it. I’m not sure you were ever in love with me. I think I turned up at a precise moment in your life, and I helped you pull yourself out of a rut. But it was as if Toby was always there. And every time I looked at Jordan, I’d see him; she looks so much like him. You and Toby stayed close over time, and it made me unhappy. I was hoping you wouldn’t want to see him again after we got married, but that never happened. Jordan was the link between you two, and when Adriana was born, she drew you even closer. Do I sound jealous? I guess so. I’m just trying to explain how all this created an intimate place for Amber.

  I’m not stupid. I’m even quite a bright guy. You know that. You always admired that about me. My brains. You’re probably wondering how an intelligent man like me is doing this. There are many men out there like me. I guess you don’t know this or don’t want to know. Men who prefer to have sex with dolls. To interact with robots. What does that mean about us? Surely nothing good. Surely something vile. What does it say about how we feel about women? Isn’t it like porn? We all know men watch porn; they always have, and always will. You’re right. It’s not pretty. It’s not romantic. But those dolls were tailored for men like me. This is what our modern world does, Clarissa; it knows exactly what we want. What men like me want. What we crave. No matter how hard I tried, it was more and more difficult to resist the dolls. Year after year, they became more human. Less like dolls, in fact. More and more like real women. But that doesn’t mean that the men who are hooked on porn, hooked on dolls, can’t love women. You must believe me, no matter how much this repels you.

  Two years ago, I heard about the company manufacturing the most sophisticated sex robots ever. When I found out more, I realized this was my dream. My own bot. For me. Not having to share her with other men. Choosing what she would look like. Her height, her shape, her hair, her eyes. Configuring her responses. What I wanted her to answer, and how. Selecting her voice. I promised myself that once I owned her, once she was here, I would tell you about it. I would show you, and I would try to explain. You’re probably upset at how Amber looks. I mean, her being young and blond, her figure, the way I dress her. What can I say in my defense? Not much. She’s any man’s fantasy. I wanted her to look like that. I chose it all carefully. I chose for her to look sexy and cute and willing. Does that make me a criminal? Clarissa, I’m no monster. Please don’t think that I am.