About Face by Adam Gittlin

of a black Mercedes, and a quick poop. Then within minutes Roy Gordon was traveling south on the Bord de Mer, the famous road hugging the southeastern coastline of France from Monaco to St. Tropez. I was in an Opel Astra. The compact, four-door sedan was perfect for the region’s tight, windy roads. Having driven one all my life, whether in the United States or Europe, the manual transmission’s stick shift was like second nature. I rolled the windows down and headed south.
    Though the Côte d’Azur was my given escape route, there werestill obstacles to be considered. The towns I knew the best were actually off limits. Cannes, Antibes, Juan-les-Pins, Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat—the hot spots for me could unfortunately prove exactly that, too hot. This was summer, high time. The chances were strong that I knew people—from business associates in Manhattan to other vacationers or locals I’d met over the years—in each of them. The best bet for me was a simple one. I had to pick one of the sleepier, tier-two towns.
    Local time was about midnight. The road alternated between one and two lanes. The thirty-five-mile-per-hour pace was just right, fast enough that I was moving yet slow enough I was able to breathe, think. A steady stream of warm, salty air flowed through the car, down my shirt. Each town I passed through—the ocean on my left, beachside bars and restaurants to my right—reminded me of a happier time. I had never imagined being on the Côte d’Azur in the pursuit of anything other than topless, tanning women and an endless party.
    About an hour later, still a good twenty miles or so north of St. Tropez, I rolled into St. Maxime. I didn’t know St. Maxime for shit. Which meant it was perfect. I had passed through it almost every time I’d been on the Côte d’Azur, but never stopped. It was almost an afterthought. Now I needed a remote nook in the world, but I couldn’t fight the paranoia that comes with living in the information age. A portrait of the cop I killed in New York had already been on CNN before I left. Had I already been flashed across CNN around the globe, along with other news outposts, as well? Had the whole world already learned who I am? If yes—how many people are really paying attention? How many people could possibly spot me?
    Was I really ready to find out?
    Due to the late—or early, depending on your habits—hour, traffic was light. It was easy to maintain my pace and scope my surroundings. After a few minutes I slowed on the sight of the La Belle Aurore. It looked to be a small, clean, quiet hotel on the cusp of calling itself a resort. It was understated, dim. It looked to be the perfect place for me to lay up as I got my head in order.
    As I pulled off the road, up away from the beach, within seconds I was faced with the easiest decision I had to make in what felt like an eternity: valet or self-parking. Valet was to the left, so like a robot I stayed right. I scoured the lot, scanned every single space to see which made the most sense. The answer was easy. One of those closest to the main road should I need to break in a hurry.
    I pulled into the third spot from the entrance and turned the key, silencing the engine. There was an unexpected, eerie sensation, like I had closed the lid on the box holding my past. All I could hear was the gently crashing surf on the opposite side of the street, the interspersed passing cars, and my thoughts. Anything and everything, each breath that would pass through my lips from here on out, would be about my future. I was shocked by how distant a life I had left only half a day earlier could seem.
    The lobby was beachy, comfortable. It was also empty. A thin, rust-colored rug held yellow couches that surrounded iron-framed, glass-topped coffee tables. One of the tables had a sterling silver bucket in the center filled with water—no doubt previously ice—and a spent, overturned