Wren read it sitting on the stone wall at the edge of the site, in the full afternoon sun, while Madame Dubois stood nearby and didn't speak.
Wren -
I know there's nothing I can say that will fix this. There's probably nothing I can say that will even begin to explain it, and I'm not sure I have the right to ask you to understand. But I'm going to try.
His name is Karim. I met him in Essaouira last October - you know how I always said I'd never be the girl who loses her head over a man? Turns out I'm exactly that girl. I fell in love with him fast and hard and I thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
Last winter he got into trouble. The kind of trouble that doesn't go away with time and patience - the kind where someone is going to get hurt if you don't come up with money. I don't want to tell you more than that, because the less you know the better. His family couldn't help. My family couldn't help, not fast enough, not enough. I thought about everything I had and I thought about the cottage.
I know you had a key to the safe-deposit box. I know you trusted me with that key. I took the property documents and I sold your half without asking you. I am telling you now, in writing, because I couldn't face telling you any other way: I am a coward, and I betrayed you, and I am so sorry.
When I got the money and gave it to Karim, I thought things would be better. They weren't better. But that is my problem, not yours.
I know I have no right to ask you to forgive me. I'm asking anyway. Partly because you're my best friend in the world and the thought of losing you is - I can't finish that sentence. And partly because I need you to know that I know what I did. I'm not pretending. I'm not making excuses. I took something that was yours and I spent it because I was frightened and in love and I thought I knew what I was doing.
I'm so sorry, Wren. Please be angry at me. You have every right to be.
- Callie
Wren folded the letter.
She sat with it for a minute, maybe more. Madame Dubois put a hand on her shoulder and didn't say anything, which was exactly right.
She wasn't as angry as she'd expected to be. There was anger - yes, a current of it, hot and specific - but what was louder was the sick worry: Karim got into trouble. The kind where someone gets hurt. What kind? Was Callie safe? Where was Callie now?
She filed the worry. She'd address it when she had a grip on the practical situation.
The practical situation.
She opened the Chambre des Notaires database on her phone and navigated to the property records search. Her father had worked for a real estate attorney for twenty years; she'd grown up watching him trace chains of title the way other people did crossword puzzles. She knew how to look.