Tragedy.
“Police now say the deaths two nights ago of a Montreal family while they slept might not have been an accident after all.” The anchor was a young woman looking far too put together for such an early hour. “Francine Blanc is at the scene of the fast-breaking story.”
Marion sat down on the edge of the bed as the image on the TV switched to an outside shot across the street from her parents’ house. There was a near clone of the anchor standing on the sidewalk facing the camera. She was holding a microphone in her hand.
“Francine, what can you tell us?” the anchor said.
“Nicole, police now think there is a very real possibility that this was not an accident. As you know, yesterday morning, the Dupuis family was found dead in their beds by a friend of the family who became concerned when Madame Dupuis failed to show up for work. At that time it appeared that the family had succumbed to a gas leak sometime during the previous night. While it is still believed that gas is what killed them, sources inside the police department are now saying the leak may have been caused by a deliberate act.”
They showed some video from the previous day, including an interview with the person who had found the bodies. It was Madame Devore from the school where Marion’s mother taught.
“It’s terrible,” Madame Devore said. There were tears streaming down her cheeks. “They were just… please, I can’t talk about this now. Excuse me. Please.”
There was a shot of one of the bodies being removed from the house. It was on a stretcher and covered with a sheet. Marion wondered who it was. Her mother? Father? Emily?
A new shot showed the candlelight vigil that had formed the night before, as the voice-over talked about a gathering of friends. Then the image of the reporter returned.
“It’s clear that the Dupuis family had many people who loved them. Nicole.”
The image on the TV split, the reporter on the right, and the anchor on the left.
“We’re hearing there might be another member of the family,” the anchor said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.” The reporter was nodding. “Neighbors tell us there is a younger daughter who works in New York. One person told us she is with the UN, but I have not been able to confirm that yet. I can tell you that police have not been able to make contact with her, and think she might currently be on assignment overseas.”
“So she’s not a suspect.”
“No. Not at this time.”
Marion stood up and turned the TV off. She stood there staring at the blank screen for several minutes.
Dead. Gone. No more.
No more reassuring smiles from her father. No more shopping trips with her mother. No more long talks with her sister. No more family Christmases. No more trips to the mountains. No more anything.
Perhaps she wasn’t a suspect, but she was an unwilling accomplice.
A shout from Iris brought her back. The newspaper had fallen on the floor.
“Come on,” Marion said. “It’s time to get ready and go.”
They left the motel five minutes later.
Marion wanted to go back to the house. She wanted to get inside to see for herself. She knew it was stupid, but it was her family. She couldn’t just leave.
She had another taxi drive her by just after 9 a.m. There were several police cars out front, and a crowd of the curious gathered on the sidewalk.
She made another try at 4 p.m. This time the police were gone, but some of the crowd remained. That was okay. It was still too early for her to try to get inside. In the daylight, she would be spotted in a second, and would be detained by the police, and no doubt forced to tell more than she was willing to.
She still had Iris to worry about. That had to be her first concern. But she wasn’t going to leave Montreal without getting inside. She owed her family that much respect at least.
She felt like another taxi ride down the street would be one too many. Even if it happened after dark, someone might start to get suspicious. But her choices were limited. She couldn’t rent a car, and she certainly couldn’t get in touch with any of her friends and ask for help. God knows what would happen to them if she did.
Steal a car? Right. She’d seen it in movies, but suspected it was even harder than it looked. That was not even close to an option.
Her only choice was to walk in.
Her suitcase was a problem, though. She needed someplace to stash it. Her best solution was the same hotel they’d stayed in the night before. So it was back to the Motel Monique, where she arranged for a second night in the same room. The clerk didn’t even question her this time. He simply took her money and handed over the key.
Suitcase dropped off, she and Iris headed back out. At a sporting goods store, she picked up a hooded pullover sweatshirt. It was black, and would hide most of her features when the hood was up. She then found a diner, and waited there until dark.
At 9:15 p.m. she called another taxi. This time instead of driving down her street, she had the driver drop her and Iris several blocks away. They walked, avoiding any direct eye contact with the few people they passed. When they reached her parents’ block, Marion slowed, eyeing everything in case there was someone waiting for her.
“No,” she said to herself as they neared the house, not hiding her frustration.
There were a dozen people out front again, and more candles. Another vigil. She wanted to be touched by the gesture, but all she could feel was anger at being denied access to the house yet again.
But when a few of the people began moving off, she realized the impromptu service was ending. She stopped one property away, and turned her head to Iris, to hide her face from those leaving the gathering.
A few of the people were talking as they walked by, and Marion was surprised to find she recognized one of the voices as a friend she hadn’t seen in over a year. She wanted to turn and call out to her, to feel the warmth and sympathy of her friend’s arms around her, but she remained where she was.
Once the steps began to recede, she chanced a look back toward her house. The only things left were a few dying candles. The crowd that had been there was gone.
Marion glanced up and down the street, making sure that there were no stragglers, then she started walking again.
As she got closer, she could hear the TV on in the Blair house. Mr. Blair was the only one who lived there anymore, his wife gone at least four years now. He’d been growing more and more deaf, and the volume of the TV had been getting increasingly louder every time Marion visited home. Her mother had joked that if they were watching the same channel, they could mute their own TV and still hear what was going on.
Marion slowed her pace as she moved in front of the house she had grown up in. When she reached the far corner of the property, she stopped again. She had noted the tape across the front entrance, but that was fine. The key she had worked on both the front and the back doors, and the latter was much preferable.
She glanced around again, saw no one at all, then took a deep breath.
“I need you to be quiet, okay?” she whispered needlessly to Iris. The child was one of the quietest she’d ever known.
Iris lifted her head up for a moment, then lay back against Marion’s shoulder.
“Okay, then. Let’s go.”
Marion turned and walked rapidly down the side of the house to the backyard. She had expected to find more tape across the rear door, but there was none. She slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Five seconds later, she was standing in her mother’s kitchen.
She walked through the first floor, looking at everything but touching nothing. It was like she was in her parents’ house, but she wasn’t. The familiarity was all there. The pictures. The dining table where she used to do her homework. The couch in the living room where she’d caught her sister making out with Peter from down the street. But even surrounded by all these things, it felt empty.
In the living room, she hesitated at the base of the stairs before mounting them.
With a nod of self-confirmation, she climbed up to the second floor.
