Page 135 of Outcast’s Return

I can’t endure another second of this.

“You have no idea what you do to me, woman,” I gasp.

Jolie, roguish, moans. She really does know.

Fuck.

And then I’m releasing with her name yet again, escaping my lips like a curse. My knees go weak. She’s made me crumble. Jolie takes all of me, and relief floods me. All the suffering from the last few days evaporates for a moment. Everything goes blank.

This is life.

54

JOLIE

Cromwell’s funeral is attended by only Clement and me. No words are said in the short service. No words are needed.

He’s cremated, but not reverently. I don’t want to grieve him. He did this to himself. He had love, a family. But in his derangement, he disregarded all of that for a thirst for power, willing to sacrifice anyone for his desires, and where did that lead him?

To the flames here.

I look over at Clement. His face is blank.

Yeah, this is not a memorial. This is a simple, silent farewell.

Like we told each other in Fabien’s hospital room, we will get through this together. With Fabien by our side. With Baptiste. With Sylvie and Elise.

He won’t talk about it anymore, but I know Fabien is deeply torn up over what he had to do that day in the mansion. But I don’t possess even one ounce of anger for what he did. The monster that was Cromwell Auclair had to be stopped, and it fell on Fabien to do it.

After the sad affair at the crematorium, I head to Fabien. He’s waiting in his car outside. He didn’t want to come in. I don’t blame him for that either.

In his car, he takes my hand and holds it.

From there, we drive to an empty bar where we meet Elise, Sylvie, and Baptiste. Clement joins us soon after we arrive. Our little group has rent out the bar for today, just for us, to get drunk in and process what’s happened to us.

We all need it.

We get our liquor and toast each other. We play music. Sylvie pours everyone a round, adopting a jokey, no-nonsense Brooklyn accent. Elise makes us all laugh by mimicking Clement’s deep chortle and imposing, commanding stride by marching up and down the bar.

We don’t talk about Cromwell. We don’t talk about the Castaways.

We let loose some of the tension. It’s like turning on a tap. We can’t wipe away what happened, but we can still drink and laugh and chatter into the early hours of the next morning.

And then we dance.

I’m the one who starts it. I put on some trashy pop and dance in the middle of the bar, whooping and beckoning everyone to join me. The girls get involved first. I knew I could count on them. Sylvie, of course, is a natural. Elise does the robot.

And then Baptiste is up, swaying his hips and making us scream with hilarity.

Even Fabien gets involved, making the cheesiest dance moves ever.

In the commotion, I make my way back to the bar, sweating and giggling.

I need another drink.

Clement is waiting for me. I see he’s drunk. His lips are loose.

He wants to say something.