mercredi
Wednesday
Shortly after 7.00am Camille opened the curtains of the attic bedroom to a dull and misty sky.
Pinned down with an intense dream memory of being isolated, Lily lay in bed watching the clouds pass and trying to make sense of Marc-Olivier’s words.
Guilty.
Monsieur Briac was a police officer. Did Marc-Olivier have some sort of a grudge against the man?
Dangerous.
Did he mean Monsieur Briac was a part of something illegal? Marc-Olivier must know what was going on.
She rolled out of bed, stretching while Flora and Camille clattered their way down the spiral staircase.
The leaves on the trees along the avenue hung with solace, and as Lily moved closer to the window she saw Madame Morneau sauntering back with the morning post from the box.
Marc-Olivier’s Citroën no longer obscured her path on the driveway and Lily guessed he had gone to college.
She began to gather her clothes, and as she dressed she thought of seeing Pascale.
The smallest hint of sunshine rippled beneath the kitchen window blind as Lily took breakfast opposite Monsieur Morneau.
‘What is it today?’ he asked. The collar of his casual shirt flared open, his brightly coloured tie folded and positioned on a laptop case on the counter.
‘School lessons and la Tour Eiffel,’ Lily replied. She helped herself to a bread roll.
‘A good schedule,’ he quipped.
Madame Morneau bustled by. ‘The girls are on the grass,’ she said, in broken English. She hurried into the house with no more than a glance in Lily’s direction.
Monsieur Morneau put down his coffee. It splashed over the table.
‘Look,’ he said, fetching a cloth. ‘I need to tell you the position with Marc.’
Lily buttered one half of her roll. Waiting.
‘He’s troubled.’ he said.
‘Yes, I can tell.’
‘We are all troubled. My wife especially. But I don’t want you to feel our house is unwelcoming. You’ve been through too much already.’
‘It’s OK,’ Lily said.
She sensed Monsieur Morneau had more to say.
‘I think you came down here last night,’ he said, after a long pause.
‘For ten minutes. I came for water.’
‘And Marc – did he bother you?’
‘A bit,’ she admitted. ‘He wanted a cigarette.’
Monsieur Morneau’s face displayed doubt. ‘He is nervous of the situation.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He was nervous.’
‘Getting together with youths involved the drugs scene is a recent thing. Marc wants help although he won’t admit. He doesn’t want to lose the chance to go into the army. He has ambition. But it is in danger.’ The man poured himself a second coffee.
Monsieur Morneau’s revelation took her aback and she admired the honesty. She thought about Marc-Olivier’s behaviour, his demeanour, and his words.
She raised her voice a level. ‘He spoke a lot about Monsieur Briac. About guilt.’
Monsieur Morneau clunked his cup on the kitchen counter and spun to face her, his troubles entering the lines of his brow. ‘This business at the Bar Tabac takes us backwards.’ He regained his composure, meeting Lily’s stare. ‘The police asked Marc in for questioning, first thing.’
‘Oh,’ Lily mumbled.
‘It will be an interview,’ Monsieur Morneau continued. ‘Marc will call me when he’s ready to tell me anything. My wife Lisette will be here when he returns.’
‘Camille knows about this?’ Lily asked.
‘We’ve spoken. I know she is concerned for her brother.’ Monsieur Morneau stretched back to fetch his tie, dropping it straight to the floor. Lily read the hospital card pass hung around his neck as he picked it up.
Directeur, recherche oncologique.
Cancer research director. Camille had explained the importance of the work her dad carried out.
He took off the chain as he fumbled to fasten his top button. She felt his confusion.
‘Merci bien, Lily,’ he said. ‘I hope you have a good day.’
Lily responded, pursing her lips to gesture a smile.
She finished her breakfast and ran into the garden with a heavy stomach.
At school, Camille pulled Flora into the jostle of older students. Pascale and Lily stood alone in the playground.
‘Bonjour. Ça va?’ Pascale said.
‘Oui ça va bien. Et toi?’
Pascale pulled a pout. ‘It’s good to see you,’ she said.
‘You too.’ Lily noticed dark patches beneath Pascale’s eyes. ‘You’re coming to Camille’s house after supper?’ Lily said.
‘Yes.’
‘Everything good at home?’
‘Thierry has been quiet. But he is recovering.’
‘It must be difficult for him. And for you and your mother.’
‘Thierry tries to do too much.’ Pascale’s scowl merged her freckles. ‘Us? We cope with the disruption. Nothing is different, except Maman drove to work at the Commissariat rather than take le métro. Jean, Monsieur Briac, has not come back just yet.’
‘Perhaps he will be at the apartment later today,’ Lily said.
‘Perhaps.’
A stout boy found his way between them. He scribbled some details on the back of a ticket and handed it to Pascale.
When the boy was out of earshot, ‘That was Laurent. He plays bass guitar. Thierry’s friend from his rock band,’ Pascale said. ‘They have a school concert to play next week. Thierry cannot take part of course. They have a substitute drummer from the college. Laurent asks if Thierry will be there to support. I think he will want to go if he can.’ Pascale put the ticket in her purse. ‘And you, Lily?’ she asked.
‘I'm good, thanks. Camille’s family has made me very welcome.’
‘It is much better you are with Camille.’ Pascale pushed her hair from her face, her eyes pensive. ‘Did you meet her brother?’
‘He came and went.’
Pascale peered at her. ‘How was he behaving?’
‘Strange. Edgy, I suppose. He was looking for something and it made him crazy.’
‘He sees the wrong people.’
‘Monsieur Morneau said he was at the Commissariat.’
‘Marc knows things I am certain.’
‘Is he a danger?’
‘Non. Marc . . . il est stupide. C’est tout. He is not the person he used to be but he is not dangerous. Misguided, more likely.’
The two girls headed a short way to sit on the grassy bank overlooking the railway, where they stood for the photo only days before. Carriage by carriage, they watched a train roll by, its passengers obscured by heavily misted windows. Pascale stared as the train disappeared into the distance.
‘When I told Thierry you were staying with Camille and her brother, he could not control his anger,’ she said.
‘If there is something going on, why won’t Thierry explain?’
‘He doesn’t know who to trust.’
‘Surely, your mother?’
‘Maman has asked but he is not saying much. He likes to make a stand against the establishment. It is not popular to be the child of a police officer.’
‘You mean at school?’
‘He fights it.’
‘But he has friends on his side?’
‘Not so many now Marc-Olivier has moved on to college.’
‘Marc-Olivier?’
‘We all used to play together when we were small. Before Papa died. We had fun. Marc was kind.’ She gave a tight-chested laugh and her face settled rapidly. ‘He still looks up to Marc, like an older brother.’
‘The incident at the Bar Tabac—’
‘I think Marc is smoking drugs. Thierry is vulnerable. I worry he will go for harder stuff because he won’t stand smoke.’
Another train crawled by, decreasing in speed as it slipped between the banks and into the st
ation approach.
‘It’s time for lessons,’ Pascale said, offering her hand. ‘On y va.’
Pascale jumped to her feet, her bus pass wallet dropping to the ground and letting slip a colour photograph.
Lily launched herself forward as it blew a short way down the bank. Scooping up the image in her hands, a halted breath stopped her from blurting out.
‘Your mother . . . and Jean?’ she said, after a moment.
She wanted to say so much more.
About the pale suit jacket and the distinct dark wavy hair.
She wanted to ask a million questions. But the words didn’t come in any language.
Over and over, Lily’s mind replayed the image she saw from the stairs leading up to the apartment. Her view over the top of the ambulance could not have been better.
It was Monsieur Briac.
No doubt about it. He came out of the Bar Tabac, past the upturned café chair and into the side street.
Why hadn’t he come over to help Thierry? Surely he would have known his stepson had been hurt and seen the ambulance . . .
Her confusion thickened. Her anger brimmed.
Ten, maybe twenty minutes passed and Lily found herself watching a well-dubbed version of a black and white film, of which she had a vague recollection, in a darkened school classroom.
The film dragged. The humour didn’t come across in translation. The final scene played out and the classroom’s black blinds ripped into the top of the window frames almost without her noticing.
Mrs Kite came into focus at the front of class standing with the beautifully poised Mademoiselle Chandris. The projection screen refilled with a shot of the Eiffel Tower.
They would be there in a matter of hours.
Mrs Kite trilled away merrily as Mademoiselle Chandris extended her jewellery-clad wrist to timetable the afternoon on the whiteboard.
Dinnertime.
Lily felt no less uncomfortable.
The crashing of plates and clinking of cutlery echoed down the stairwell and a warm draught of stewed meatballs infused with the fluttering she felt inside. Lily looked beyond the orderly queue of English exchange students, to the bundles of eyes fixed down on her. The students thumped their shoes over wooden boards into the upstairs dining hall.
The image of Monsieur Briac haunted her again, this time through the metal catering racks full of yoghurts. Lily struggled with an obscure feeling of betrayal as Pascale waved at her from across the room. Several older boys dispersed from the corner where Pascale and Camille sat.
‘It is true. Luc was taken into the police station on Monday during the raid. He is answering questions about the knife attack on Thierry,’ Camille whispered.
‘And they will ask him what happened to Didier,’ Pascale said. She spoke solemnly, the yellow ceiling lights reflecting in the glassiness of her eyes.
‘Fabien in my class says Luc’s younger brother Didier almost ties himself around Luc’s ankles,’ Camille said. ‘Didier might only have been there by accident.’
A boy tipped his chair backwards as Lily struggled to put down her tray. ‘No accident Didier was there,’ he countered.
Lily tried to squeeze into the space as the boy turned away. ‘Do you think Luc held a gun too?’ she whispered.
‘Huh?’ Flora said.
Pascale shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But Luc wouldn’t have put his little brother in danger like that. No. There were others. I am certain of it.’
Lily dragged her hand across one side of her face. Her throat sore as she tried to swallow her first mouthful of food. Her head aching with knowledge about Monsieur Briac that she didn’t quite know what to do with.
The heat of the room became too much and her fork clattered on the plate. ‘I need to cool down. I won’t be long,’ she said.
‘Lily, are you OK?’ Pascale asked.
‘Yes, please don’t worry.’
The corridor screeched with sporadic feedback and the raucous tones of heavy rock music. The door to the school hall swung and Lily saw the band practising on the stage.
Four boys, about Thierry’s age.
The drummer tapped sticks, and instrument by instrument the song stopped.
‘Encore une fois, le refrain,’ the drummer shouted to the boy with spiked hair who was standing at the microphone.
The door flew wide again with the corridor draught, drawing the band members’ attention to her presence. Lily recognised the bass player Laurent.
The drummer beckoned her with one of his sticks.
Lily’s cheeks burned, her ears throbbed.
‘J’écoutais,’ she said quickly. And as loudly as she could manage. ‘La musique, c’est cool.’
‘Oui?’ The drummer laughed. ‘Come next week to see us, English,’ he called. ‘Or do you lie?’ He laughed again.
Lily shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. We will be gone,’ she replied. ‘To the UK.’
‘C’est dommage,’ the drummer jeered.
The guitarist turned to his amp and started to retune his guitar.
‘You’re staying with Thierry, yes?’ the singer said, his voice booming out of the PA.
‘Oui,’ Lily croaked.
‘He drums, for us. Normalement.’
Lily nodded.
‘He is better?’
‘Yes. Well, I don’t know exactly . . . better I think. His sister says so. He is at home.’
The singer stood for a moment then pulled ear monitors out of his ears and waved his arms. ‘Fini,’ he said, unplugging himself and his microphone. ‘Jusqu’à demain,’ he shouted to Laurent then whipped his way behind the stage curtain.
The drummer jumped from the stage, his blonde dreadlocks mopping the air.
‘I have to go too,’ Lily whispered, inaudibly. She backed out of the hall, almost running towards the cloakroom door.
A rush of air at the nape of her neck.
A poke of a drumstick on her upper arm.
‘The bullet came from the pistol of Monsieur Briac,’ a voice said.
The drumstick landed on the floor in front of her feet.
The sharp-eyed drummer put his foot on it and stood before her.
‘Just as it did before. Made my uncle deaf, dumb and blind at Le Maître d'Or. Didn’t they tell you?’
Lily stared up at the drummer as if she did not understand.
Except she understood his accusation only too well.
‘It is no wonder Marc-Olivier left the band, mixing with a family like that,’ he carried on, his voice as penetrating as his hard-hitting drumming.
Fast footsteps.
To Lily’s relief Mademoiselle Chandris appeared from nowhere, anger spreading over the teacher’s face as she drew closer. ‘Yves! Viens!’ she shouted, lifting the youth away.
Lily almost fell into the cloakroom, and clutched the hand basin tight to compose herself. She felt her heart accelerating to explode. The door creaked behind her and she heard Flora’s voice.
‘Are you OK, Lil?’
‘Just,’ Lily replied, opening her eyes.
‘Will you be OK to go to the Eiffel Tower this afternoon?’
‘Sure.’ Lily managed to sound in control.
‘Really?’
‘Really. It’s lack of sleep.’
‘Don’t fib to me.’ Flora pulled up a stool. ‘Here, sit down. I know when you’re fibbing.’
‘I’ll sit when I’ve done this.’
Lily rested one knee on the stool while she filled the basin. She splashed her face as the water level rose.
The door banged again.
‘Ca va?’ came the voice of Mademoiselle Chandris.
Lily heard someone pulling out paper towels. When she opened her eyes, the teacher held them out to her.
‘Merci bien,’ Lily replied.
Mademoiselle Chandris bit her lip. ‘I’m so sorry for what happened with Yves. I will not have anyone intimidating the English students in this school.’
&n
bsp; Lily dabbed at her face and threw the towels into the waste bin. ‘It’s OK. He didn’t mean anything against me, I don’t think.’
‘Whatever he meant, he shouldn’t have cornered you,’ Mademoiselle Chandris replied.
‘Did something happen?’ Flora asked, her eyes widening.
‘Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,’ Lily replied. ‘I didn’t understand what he said to me anyway.’
Flora eyed her with suspicion.
‘It’s fine, Flora,’ Lily said.
Mademoiselle Chandris spoke in dulcet tones. ‘Of course it matters, whatever he said, and you must come and find me any time you feel you need to talk. Both of you. It’s what I’m here for.’
Lily felt a compelling urge to confide in the young teacher there and then.
She didn’t.
She managed to eat morsels of food as she joined in with the conversation with Pascale and Camille in the dining room.
The church clock showed 12.30pm at the time she caught up with Mrs Kite in the school playground.
The teacher cradled Lily’s face in her ice-cold palms. ‘You don’t look so well.’
‘I’m not ill,’ Lily said, abruptly. ‘I need to talk to the police.’
Mrs Kite’s face whitened. ‘Again? Is it about the drummer boy in the corridor? Mireille told me what happened.’
‘No, it’s not about the drummer boy in the corridor.’
‘Do you want to talk somewhere private?’
Politely, Lily tugged herself away. ‘I don’t want to speak here, for certain.’
‘Yes of course.’ Mrs Kite thought for a second and tapped at her phone. Her voice elevated in its pitch, ‘I can contact Madame Briac and she can advise whether it’s necessary for you to speak to anyone.’
Anxiety wriggled in Lily’s chest. She gripped at Mrs Kite’s arm. ‘It’s necessary.’
Mrs Kite put on her crushed face, checking her watch. ‘I’ll find Mademoiselle Chandris in the staff room to let her know I’m taking you to the Commissariat,’ she said.
A clashing of symbols, drums and trumpets filled the air as Lily and Mrs Kite stood in the reception of the Commissariat Central. ‘It’s a fête day,’ Mrs Kite said, and through the open entrance door Lily caught sight of a string of uniformed musicians marching in front of schoolchildren dressed as crocodiles, tigers and snakes. ‘The school group will leave for the Eiffel Tower at two-thirty,’ the teacher continued as the tail end of the celebration passed. ‘We should be able to get this done and get over the bridge to meet them.’
Heels snapped against the stone floor and Lily turned. ‘Madame Briac!’ Lily said.
Madame Briac appeared. ‘Lily, ma petite. Ça va bien?’
‘Oui, Madame.’
Madame Briac continued to hold Lily’s hand, the woman’s cheeks drooped sympathetically and clearly she did not know what to say. ‘It is a terrible thing to happen during your school trip. I am so sorry. Would you like me to stay in the interview room? I don’t have to be in my court liaison meeting until later this afternoon.’
Panic.
Lily hadn’t considered Madame Briac might be there. Lily's breath knotted over her reply. ‘Non. Merci Madame. I will manage.’
Madame Briac released Lily’s hand. ‘Remember,’ she said. ‘I am just along the corridor.’
The interview room door sucked to a close.
The police officer that had taken Lily’s statement began to recap on the notes she took on Sunday afternoon. ‘You have something to add I think?’ she said, her pen poised.
‘Yes.’ Lily stared down at her feet not really knowing how to start.
She gulped air.
‘It’s to do with Monsieur Briac. I saw him at the Bar Tabac on the day of the shooting. The day Thierry was hurt. I know he was the man I saw leaving the scene.’
Mrs Kite didn’t flinch as she translated. Gradually her cheery-cheeked expression dropped into a hard-faced stare. No reaction came from the officer.
‘Walking away from the scene at the Bar Tabac? Are you sure, Lily?’ Mrs Kite asked.
‘I’ve seen a photo of Pascale’s family.’
‘A photo?’ Mrs Kite said in exasperation. ‘But you haven’t met Monsieur Briac in person.’
‘I know it was Monsieur Briac,’ Lily said, in cold reply. ‘I saw his face. He was wearing the same clothes.’
‘Ma pauvre. There must be a mistake.’
She thought of the drummer Yves. ‘Other people have said—’ Her utterance met a wall. She stared blankly, her eyes stinging in the dry air.
Without writing a word on the page of notes, the officer snapped shut her dossier and caught the attention of someone through the interview room window.
Madame Briac came hurrying in and the two women nestled in whispered conversation.
‘Is that it?’ whispered Mrs Kite, clutching at her scarf. ‘Will they not explain to me why we’ve stopped?’
With her face pained, and patent court shoes squeaking with each step, Madame Briac ushered the police officer from the room. ‘These sorts of crime are rare,’ she said, linking her arm through Lily’s as they strolled along the corridor.
They stood in the reception area, the atmosphere between them as uncomfortable as the lack of ventilation. Lily freed herself from Madame Briac’s grasp to rub at annoying marks on her glasses lenses.
Why did Monsieur Briac turn up at the Bar Tabac and disappear again? Did Madame Briac know what her husband had been doing?
Outside, a succession of orange and blue streamers tumbled along the street. Lily took in the fresher air.
‘Well, it’s exactly as I planned,’ Mrs Kite said, triumphantly, and in an obvious attempt to lighten the situation. ‘Plenty of time to meet the group at the Eiffel Tower. We’ve time to spare.’
‘Good,’ Lily muttered, carelessly.
‘And I will need to get to Thierry to make his lunch,’ Madame Briac said.
‘How is he?’ Lily asked.
‘Watching a film when I telephoned. He is still weak.’ Madame Briac pulled out her car keys and unlocked her car. ‘But it will come. I have learned to give him more space, ever since his father died.’
‘Absolutely,’ Mrs Kite said. But the look on her face was one of perplexity. ‘He doesn’t remember anything about the attack?’
Madame Briac flashed a smile. ‘Sometimes police work is confusing to us all,’ she said. ‘Now you must go to your group. The sight seeing will be good.’
Lily hesitated. ‘If I needed to come along—’
Madame Briac bowed a sympathetic ear towards Lily.
‘No Lily. There won’t be time,’ Mrs Kite exclaimed.
‘It’s my camera. I left it in the wardrobe,’ Lily responded.
‘Well,’ Madame Briac replied. ‘We could make it, couldn’t we. And you would be sorry not to take pictures from the Eiffel Tower.’
Mrs Kite adopted an aggrieved stance. ‘Lily, how will you get back to meet us?’
‘It’s not a problem. I will bring her back by three. That is what you want, no?’ Madame Briac said. ‘You will only need to tell me where you are going to meet.’
Lily felt a fulfilling sense of accomplishment at having escaped Mrs Kite again, even if only for a short time. She climbed into the passenger seat of Madame Briac’s car and as she enjoyed the freedom of the drive, her thoughts became fixed on home and the anxious conversation she held on the telephone with her mum the night before. Her dad, with his practical banking hat on, was much more realistic about the whole issue.
But her calming thoughts crashed the moment Madame Briac angled the car into a parking bay in front of Apartments 316-325 Rue de la Bastille. Releasing her hands from the steering wheel, Madame Briac thrust her fingers into her handbag, dragging out her mobile and pressing it to her ear. Her relaxed driving expression metamorphosed into one of panic. Face powder appeared to drop away from her cheeks.
‘Jean? Oh la! Attends!’
Madame Bria
c hurried into her bag again and held out a cardkey and a single silver key attached to a key ring. ‘Tiens,’ she said, shaking them at Lily. ‘You won’t be too long fetching your things will you? I’ll be back very soon.’
Lily began, ‘OK—’ but Madame Briac returned to her caller. She flagged Lily away.
Lily pushed the car door shut and, with a tentative look behind, strode up the steps to the apartment block.
‘Bonjour Madame,’ she called out to Madame Claude, hoping the widow had calmed. The elderly lady in black tipped herself forward from her kitchen chair, and seeming to remember Lily at the last moment, lifted a conciliatory sun-browned arm in response, her forehead crinkling into her severely pinned hair and a gold-toothed gape breaking her solemn vigil over the comings and goings of the street.
Lily left Madame Claude behind, swiping the cardkey and pushing through the glass doors to the hallway.
A steady mechanical whirr dragged at Lily’s ears as the oil-clogged cords of the lift squeaked their way through the pulley mechanism. A heavy clunk and the cords vibrated with the crashing of the concertina gate. She bypassed the lift and made her way across Madame Claude’s open front door to climb the stairs to the first floor window, not stopping to look.
Up to the second floor, where two apartment doors faced each other.
316.
She knocked hard.
The noise filled the stairwell.
‘Thierry? C’est Lily . . .’
No reply.
She pushed the key into the lock.
‘Thierry?’
The tone of her call and the juddering of the closing door echoed inharmoniously around the delicate French decor of the apartment. Her footsteps thudded over the polished floorboards and the stretches of runner that Mrs Kite had cleaned and disinfected 48 hours earlier.
‘Thierry?’ she called one more time, throwing her voice carefully along the corridor.
The building creaked and stretched in reply, coveting her in its emptiness.
She jabbed at the bedroom door, as if she were almost tempting fate, and paced through determinedly as it swung.
One door to the heavy wardrobe lay ajar. She dragged it wide, doing her best to ignore the small, bespectacled body in tight jeans reflecting back at her in its mirror. At her head height she drew open a small drawer, just large enough for a collection of pocket-handkerchiefs. Reaching over with her other hand she touched at the cool metal of her small camera and gathering it up by its cord, slipped it into her back pocket.
Rather than force it to close, she allowed the wardrobe door to hang free. She hurried to the window and stroking aside the net curtain, leaned her head on the window glass.
A red service van occupied the car parking space where Madame Briac had stopped. A man wheeled an electrical appliance along the pavement.
Suddenly an explosive decompression of air blocked her ears, and from behind the van with a tearing of metal on tarmac, a battered black Citroën mounted the high kerb and with its wheels in the air, smashed into the front windows of the Bar Tabac.
Lily’s hands shook as she turned the window bar. She let the wind push the long second floor window back against the net curtains. She lifted the nets and reached a hand into her pocket.
Someone threw open the driver’s door of the crushed Citroën.
‘Briac . . . but I don’t understand.’ She hardly heard herself whisper over the throbbing pulse of her heart.
The wardrobe door squealed on its hinges. Her sub-conscious stirred.
She scrabbled her fingers over the ‘on’ button of her camera.
Monsieur Briac with dark wavy hair and the same creased jacket gripped something with both hands and heaved. He stopped, his body rocked, and he began the motion again.
This time Lily saw the gun. Monsieur Briac banged it against the moving body as he lugged it from the car.
The body of a younger man hit the walkway. The young man rolled, pushing himself to all fours. Blood poured on the pavement from his hairline. The young man brought his hands around his head.
Only now could she see his face.
Marc-Olivier.
The wind whipped up a whirl of the leaves around the figures. Monsieur Briac spat a mouthful of fluid and abandoned the teenager, disappearing into the broken shell of the Bar Tabac.
Lily stood, as a picture framed, holding up the net curtain on her shoulders. One, then two clacks from the nearby clock grated over the outdoor scene.
Monsieur Briac stepped out of the Bar Tabac onto the smashed glass and debris of the wide Parisian walkway with his mobile pressed to his ear. He reached his other arm over the limp straggles of his dark hair as if he were pulling at something in his brain. He tugged his head back further and looked up to where she stood behind the second floor window. Throwing his phone at the open window of the car, he pulled out a handgun and tipped it to the ground as he charged at the entrance beneath her.
Lily flew back from the glass, dropping the dust-laden net curtain to the floor.
She had to get out.