But then she heard his voice, "Greta?," faintly, coming from
downstairs.
Judging by the echo she guessed that he was in the kitchen - and
only one minute away from making his way through the foyer, up
the stairs, and into their bedroom. "My God!" she gasped,
struggling with her robe. "Hurry! Leave!"
Jean-Pierre had managed to pull on his pants, shirt, jacket.
Snatching up his shoes and socks and wristwatch, he stepped
outside, onto the terrace. She gathered her robe and tied it
closed as she rushed from the room.
"Matthew?" she called from the top of the stairs. "I'm up here,"
she said, composing herself as she descended quickly.
"There you are," Matthew said, his garment bag and briefcase in
tow. He set down the briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and
flipped through a few pieces of mail. Yes, she thought
thankfully, take your time and read your mail, all of it. "I came
back tonight instead. My meeting was shorter than I'd expected."
He glanced at her.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he stopped going through the mail. He
dropped it next to his briefcase and began climbing the steps.
"Why is it so dark in the house? Are you in bed already?"
She stopped and raised her wrist to her head, fumbling with her
words. "I'm not feeling very well," she said. She pulled a
tattered tissue from her pocket, dabbed it beneath her dry nose,
coughed.
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