Free Fortune's Deadly Descent by Audrey Braun Page A

It’s depressing. Seriously. Don’t be hard on yourself. I know what you’re thinking. Benny’s disappearance isn’t your fault.”
    If only this were true.
    Oliver scratches his two-day stubble. “Benny’s a great kid. And I’m not so bad myself. Well, these days. And we didn’t get this way by accident.”
    I pat his knee. “Thank you.”
    Part of me believes him—out of a fierce need for it to be true. But the spritz of relief I feel wears off in moments, as I face the possibility that I’ve been a bad partner to Benicio. How can I not have seen there was trouble in our marriage? Why would Benicio see Emily behind my back unless she was meeting a need of his I somehow wasn’t?
    Diverting to such thoughts when my concentration should be zeroed in on Benny is just more proof of my failure as a mother. But, even worse, every time I get sidetracked, if only momentarily, the reality of Benny’s situation swings back and smacks me anew. It’s as if he’s being taken from me hundreds of times a day.
    “I mean it, Mom.”
    “All right,” I say. “Thank you.”
    “
Nichts zu Danken
,” he says.
    The GPS directs us to the train stop at the edge of town. And, suddenly, there’s the concrete platform, the Saint-Corbenay sign. I’ve tried to prep myself, but my stomach clenches at the sight regardless.
    I rise from the Rover and suck in a breath. A faint, misty rain glazes my face and hair. I cinch the belt of my raincoat. My steely resolve remains in place.
    Oliver covers his head with his hood.
    “Do you have some kind of hat?” I ask.
    “No. Why?”
    “You look too American. Here. Share my umbrella. I don’t want us to stand out.”
    Oliver tosses his hood back and ducks beneath the umbrella. He pulls up a map of Saint-Corbenay on his phone and tugs the image around with his finger. I repeatedly poke him in the head with the umbrella as we set off down a street whose cobalt sign nailed to a stone house reads “Rue de Saint-Corbenay.”
    “And speak German to me,” I say.
    “
Klar doch
,” he says.
    At first, we see no one. Hear no one. The village appears as abandoned as it did last week. The narrow walkways between houses and shops are murky, the cool cobbles slick with age, steaming from warm rain. I’ve lived in Europe seven years and I’m used to the old world appearance of things, but the handmade lace curtains in the windows, the absence of cars, the silence, leave me feeling as if I’ve journeyed back centuries.
    But then, we hear a soft warble of voices, then the clang of a bicycle bell, then a church bell chiming eleven times. We turn a corner and the rumble of a hundred conversations billows toward us. Oliver locates us on the map, says, “Ah, the town square is a block this way.”
    We round a corner and come face-to-face with an open-air market, the gurgling fountain in the center of the square. A woman hails shoppers to her jars of mustard. People mill about beneath yellow-and-white-striped awnings between rows of produce—greens, white cabbage, bundled carrots, shallots, a vibrant, autumn-colored display of jams. The rich, fermented smell of cheese reaches my nose, and then I see the stall filled with balls of white and yellow, foamy squares, triangles of marbled blue. Next to that, tables with wicker baskets full of cured meats, sausagesthe shape and size of yams. And then, arrays of spices, basket after basket.
    I could never have imagined this scene when I leaned my head out of the train last week—Saint-Corbenay had seemed so somber and humorless, but of course, I wouldn’t have seen it as anything other than forbidding as I searched for Benny.
    Now I can’t help thinking that this market would be heaven for him. He’d want to dip his nose into every last thing, sniff and fondle, beg for vegetables and bulk spices. His version of a candy shop. My throat tightens at the thought.
    I take another long, damp breath, and look around. “I don’t see a lot of children,” I