Daughter of a fallen former Formula 1 driver, Camila has had only one mission since her early childhood : to disappear from the public eye and the journalists who eagerly await to tear apart the last ties holding her family together. Torn between he...
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November 2004.
There's a knock at the front door, and I run through the house, bare feet slapping against the cold tiles, to go open it. Standing on tiptoe, I try to identify, through the frosted glass of the door, who the three figures standing behind it are, but they're too blurry. I grab the handle and let my weight fall heavily on it, only to find myself face to face with three police officers.
The closest one anxiously glances back at his two colleagues before crouching down in front of me, removing his cap.
"Hey there," he starts, voice soft. "Are your parents home?"
"Mom went to the grocery store, but Dad is in the garage," I reply. "Why?"
"Can you call your dad for us?" the second officer asks softly.
"Is he in trouble? Did he do something wrong?" I ask, suddenly worried.
Another glance.
"Please call him," the first officer asks, before standing up. "We won't be long."
•
November 2019.
The lab is still empty when I enter, triggering the motion detector and flooding the room with bright white light. Nothing has changed since last night, except for a large binder of incident report history that Mike Coughlan, Pierre's race engineer, promised to bring me yesterday. Man kept his word, I think, as I drop into my chair and open the binder with a flick of my finger.
No more than three pages later, I struggle to stifle a yawn, which reminds me that I haven't slept enough. It's not like anything happened after I firmly insisted that Max leave me in the hotel lobby (after the various incidents between us, I really don't want him causing another scene in my room). No, I just had a hard time falling asleep, trapped in the anticipation of something I've been avoiding for years.
Lost in thought somewhere between England and South America, I don't hear the door open behind me, and nearly let out a scream when I feel something hit my head.
"What the-," I start before turning around, feeling a smile tug at my lips at the sight of Pierre.
"Was that too much?" the Frenchman asks with a laugh.
"Tennis balls are for testing your reflexes, not mine, thank you very much," I declare, feigning annoyance before bending down to pick up the ball.
When he finally reaches me, I can't help but smile, opening my arms to welcome him.
"How was your flight? Did you get here this morning?" I ask, pulling the usual stool out from under my desk with my foot and gesturing for Pierre to sit down.
