Free The Girl on Paper by Guillaume Musso

thread or horsehair? That would do fine. But wait! You have something better, I think. I’m sure I saw the miracle cure somewhere around here, in the—’
    She got up off her stool in mid-sentence and started rummaging through the drawers in my desk as if she were in her own home.
    ‘Found it!’ she announced triumphantly, sitting back down at the table with a tube of Super Glue in her hand.
    She unscrewed the lid of the small tube whose label read ‘for use on ceramics and porcelain’ and squeezed a thin line of glue onto her cuts.
    ‘Wait a second – are you sure you know what you’re doing? We’re not in a movie, you know.’
    ‘No, but I am a literary heroine,’ she replied sardonically. ‘Don’t worry, this is why you make up people like me.’
    She pushed the edges of the cut together and held them there for a few seconds until the glue took effect.
    ‘There we go!’ she exclaimed proudly, holding up her skilfully sutured palm.
    She took a large bite of the slice of toast that I had just buttered for her, then gulped down some tea. Behind her mug I could see those large eyes trying to read my mind.
    ‘You’re being much nicer to me, but you still don’t believe me, do you?’ she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
    ‘A tattoo isn’t exactly concrete evidence,’ I said carefully.
    ‘But the mutilation is, right?’
    ‘It’s concrete evidence that you have violent and impulsive tendencies, sure!’
    ‘So interrogate me!’
    I refused, shaking my head. ‘I’m an author, not a journalist or a cop.’
    ‘But it wouldn’t be that difficult, would it?’
    I threw the contents of my mug into the sink. Why was I forcing myself to drink tea when I had always hated the stuff?
    ‘Look, I’ll make you a deal.’ I left my proposition unfinished as I considered the best way to put it to her.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I’m quite happy to put you to the test by asking you a series of questions about Billie, but if you hesitate, or give a wrong answer, even once, you leave here no questions asked.’
    ‘Deal.’
    ‘So we’re agreed: at the first mistake you’re gone, otherwise I’ll call the police. And this time – you can cut yourself up all you like, I’ll leave you leaking blood on the terrace.’
    ‘Have you always been such a charmer, or do you have to work at it?’
    ‘Do we have a deal?’
    ‘Yes. Fire away.’
    ‘Name, date of birth, place of birth?’
    ‘Billie Donelly, born August 11, 1984, in Milwaukee, near Lake Michigan.’
    ‘Mother’s name?’
    ‘Valeria Stanwick.’
    ‘What did your father do for a living?’
    ‘He worked for Miller, the second largest brewery in the state.’
    She never missed a beat, seeming to answer my questions instinctively.
    ‘What’s the name of your best friend?’
    ‘One of my greatest regrets is that I don’t really have one. Just a few girlfriends.’
    ‘First sexual encounter?’
    She took a moment to think about this question, looking at me solemnly. I understood that her unease came solely from the personal nature of the question.
    ‘I was sixteen. It happened in France; I was on a language course on the Côte d’Azur. His name was Théo.’
    I was becoming more and more unsettled by the accuracy of her answers, and, judging by her smile, I could tell that she knew she had finally caught my attention. Whatever was behind this, one thing was certain: she knew my novels inside out.
    ‘What’s your favourite drink?’
    ‘Coca-Cola. The proper one, not Diet or Zero.’
    ‘Favourite film?’
    ‘ Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind . It captures so exactly the pain of being in love. It’s so poetic, so melancholy. Have you seen it?’
    She unfolded her long limbs and wandered over to lie down on the sofa. I was once again struck by her resemblance to Billie; she had the same luminous fair complexion, the same unspoilt natural beauty, the same street-smart humour, the same tone of voice that I remember describing in my books as