Crossfire by Niki Savage

happened?”
    Stefan laughed mirthlessly. “If I could choose, I wouldn’t be here, but I guess life has a way of forcing us to face our demons. I’ll be fine.”
    “When will we see you?” It was Kris’ voice again.
    “I’ll recover fully within the next few weeks. I won’t contact you unless necessary, but let me know the minute you have a location for Ahmed Rashid.”
    They said goodbye, and he switched the phone off to conserve the battery. His mind went over all the possible scenarios. How had Mohammed Rashid ended up dead? Had Marcelle killed him? Why couldn’t he remember it? Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t taken him to a normal hospital. The police would have asked too many questions. For a high profile person such as herself, it would be a feeding frenzy if the press got hold of it. Though he knew appearances could be deceptive, he couldn’t believe the young widow capable of killing a man. Did he dare ask her?
    When Marcelle came back, Stefan was still frowning.
    She caught his mood. “Bad news?”
    “No, Karl is alive. He’s back at headquarters.”
    She smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”
    “He’s under the impression I had killed one of the terrorists, and left his body for his friends to find.”
    “Oh.”
    He couldn’t read much into her noncommittal reply. “Marcelle, what happened at the post office?”
    She shrugged. “I dragged you to the car, and got out of there as quick as I could. Why, what’s the matter?”
    “So you know nothing about the dead man?”
    “I didn’t see anyone there. Then again, it was dark, and my attention was focused on you.”
    He wouldn’t let her off that easily. “Marcelle, I didn’t kill him. Did you?”
    She looked taken aback, and he was sorry he had asked. But it was too late.
    “I can’t believe you would try to drag me down to your level,” she retorted heatedly. “From where I stand, there’s only one killer in this room!”
    Before he could answer, she turned on her heel and stormed from the room.
    * * * *
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Later in the evening Marcelle looked in on the Stefan, and found him asleep. She regretted her overreaction earlier. He had made a logical deduction, and her anger had been unjustified. If only she had told him the truth from the start.
    She returned to her room and took a warm shower before pulling on an oversized T-shirt that had belonged to Jean-Michel, and a pair of shorts. She went to the study, and sank into the comfortable leather chair behind the desk. A pile of correspondence lay in the centre of the desk. She had sent one of the guards to empty her post box, determined not to return to the scene of her crime for a long time to come. She sorted through the letters. Most were business letters, except for one from Jean-Michel’s parents, and she saved it for last.
    The tone of the letter was friendly. Christina and Remi Deschamps wanted to know when she would visit them again, and she smiled sadly, her thoughts with the elderly couple. Her late husband had been one of a pair of identical twins, an unexpected bonus for his parents, who were never able to have more children. Tragically, Jean-Michel’s brother had died at the age of eight in a freak accident. A badly traumatized Jean-Michel had survived, raised as a cherished only child. Upon his death, twenty-five years later, his parents had come to regard his widow as the daughter they never had.
    She was fond of them, and visited them often on their wine farm in the south of France, spending at least a month with them during the off-season. They were kind to her, and didn’t expect her to spend the rest of her life mourning their son. In fact, they had more than once suggested she should find herself a friend, but she had decided she didn’t want to go through the pain of losing someone ever again. Once in a lifetime was enough.
    A framed picture of Jean-Michel stood on the corner of the desk. She picked it up, and set it down in front of her. This