Page 90 of Our Last Resort

The county official says the victim was a twenty-two-year-old female. No public records exist for the woman, but a source says she was known within the organization only as Edwina.

It wasn’t Edwina I’d seen getting pulled out of the building. I knew that for sure. The image was seared onto my brain forever, Émile’s body dangling from the mothers’ arms, inert, pale. Dead.

But the paper told a different story.

I read it again. And again. And again. Each time, the same result:a twenty-two-year-old female…known within the organization only as Edwina.

My mouth was so dry. I tried to swallow and failed.

I wasn’t entitled to feel shocked.Shockimplied a certain amount of surprise. I’d known this was a possibility. I’d pictured Edwina on the second floor even as I’d poured the gasoline.

I’d accepted it.

I’d hoped for it, even. Maybe.

And it had happened.

My vision blurred. I wiped tears from my eyes. More came. They stopped abruptly, replaced by a lump in my throat. My fists clenched around the newspaper.

The organization has been run for years by Émile Blanchard, a mysterious figure who imposes a strict code of silence on hisfollowers. Mr.Blanchard emigrated from France in his twenties and was once an entrepreneur. He is believed to have started the group in 1987. Members now live mostly cut off from mainstream society, with only Mr.Blanchard making occasional contact with the outside world for supplies and PR missions.

“We can’t investigate,” the county official, who requested anonymity due to the fear of reprisal, said. “A young woman died and no one in this organization will say a word to us. If anyone from the public has any information, we urge them to come forward immediately.”

I pictured the scene: A fire truck like the ones I’d seen in the city, pulling up to the compound. Men in gear rushing to Émile’s aid, tending to Edwina’s body.

And then: A police car. I’d seen them around the city, too. People in uniform doing whatever “investigating” entailed. (I didn’t know. I didn’t have a TV yet.)

Émile had prepared us for a moment like this. From the time we were kids, he’d told us about the possibility of intruders on the compound. He’d made it clear that we weren’t to talk toanyone or show them anything. There were drills. We all had our orders.

Émile.

He was alive. Still in the world. Recovering, presumably. Dealing with the fire, with the destruction of his office. The mothers caring for his wounds, his needs, his life.

They’d done it. Those diligent, cruel, insanely brave women. They’d run into a burning building to save their man. They’d done exactly what they’d been trained to do.

No one would speak to the police. That, at least, was for certain.

I walked back to the storage unit.

It made me want to die, what we’d done to Edwina. I know, I know. I’d pictured it, craved it, and still, it made me want to die. All the ways I could do it flashed in my mind: jumping into thefrigid Hudson, stepping in front of a bus. New York was full of possibilities in that way.

I waited for Gabriel. Eventually, the door to the storage unit opened with a groan.

“Hey,” Gabriel said. “So, I went around construction sites like we said and—”

“Look,” I cut in, in a voice that wasn’t my own.

I tried to press the paper into his hands. Gabriel held them up. His fingers were covered in some kind of grime.

“Just take it,” I said.

He did. I held my breath as his eyes bounced around the pages. When they widened, I knew he’d reached the part about Edwina.

“What’s this?” he whispered.

We hadn’t talked about Émile. Not once since we’d left.

I took the paper back without a word.

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