It was clear she was talking about Trent as much as Omar.
Marielle drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “How do you do it? How do you live with the fear of losing Trent on every mission?”
Olivia was quiet, choosing her words carefully. “The job will always try to come between you. Always. You have to decide, every single day, that you’re partners first. Not leader and follower. Not senior and junior. Partners. Equals.”
“Even when you disagree?”
“Especially when you disagree.” Olivia stared into the fire. “It comes down to trust. Like today, I wanted to argue with him, convince him not to go to Marseille.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. Because he had to make that choice himself. And I had to trust it.” She took a drink. “That’s the deal. I trust his judgment in the field, he trusts mine. We don’t second guess each other in front of other people. We save the arguments for when we’re alone.”
Marielle thought about Omar sneaking out with the car keys. About how she’d let him go even though every instinct screamed at her to stop him.
“And,” Olivia added with a wry smile, “you have to be smarter than the men. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t hard.”
They both laughed, the mood lightening. But Olivia’s message stayed with Marielle: loving Omar would mean living with constant fear. She’d have to learn to carry it.
They finished the wine and banked the fire. Marielle used the poker to push the logs apart, then shoveled ash over them until the flames died to glowing embers. She was exhausted, wrung out. A glance at Liv confirmed she was equally drained.
They double checked the locks, poured two glasses of water, and headed to the guest room where two twin beds waited, narrow and pushed against opposite walls like they were back in their dorm at the Farm. The beds had belonged to Marielle’s great-aunts originally. Mémé Céline had kept them exactly as they were.
Marielle changed into one of the oversized t-shirt and pairs of soft pants Luc had given her. Olivia borrowed a similar outfit. Although on her, the top was a belly shirt and the pants were capris, hitting not far below her knees. Marielle giggled at the sight.
Olivia climbed under the covers, still talking. “So what do you think Hanna actually knows? Just the shell company stuff Poppy mentioned or something bigger?”
“Has to be bigger.”
“She could know details. Specific transactions. Bank accounts. Wire transfers.”
“Or people. Names. Who’s connected to whom.”
Olivia yawned. “We’ll find out tomorrow. When we record her statement.”
“Yeah.”
Within minutes, Olivia’s breathing evened out. She was asleep.
Marielle pulled the blanket to her chin and closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come immediately. She lay in the dark, listening to her friend breathe, missing Omar, praying he was safe, and hoping she was doing right by Hanna.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, she and Liv would untangle this mess.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook her churning thoughts and her heavy eyelids closed.
Fifteen
Omar pulled up to the aviation school just before ten o’clock. The main building was dark and the parking lot was empty, save for a rusted pickup truck and a motorcycle under a tarp. But light spilled from a hangar in the back.
He followed the bright triangle of light across the tarmac and parked the Peugeot just outside the wide open hangar door. As he exited the car, he cracked his stiff back and rolled his tight shoulders. He ached all over, like he’d taken a beating. Oh right, he had.
He walked toward the hangar. His footsteps echoed with a series of sharp cracks. The cool air smelled like aviation fuel and night-blooming jasmine from somewhere beyond the fence line.
Inside the hangar, he found Jake and Trent hunched over a workbench covered in maps, schematics, and satellite photos. They looked up at the sound of his footsteps.
Jake’s expression was equal parts exasperation and resignation. “Of course you came.”
There was no heat in it. Just weary acceptance.