“Who broke your arm? Who torched your house?”
Her eyes darkened. “Why this obsession with me? You show up at my home. You reawaken pain best left dormant. Now you want to destroy my marriage. Why can’t you just leave me in peace?”
I tried a Ryan quick-switch. “I know about Laurette.”
“What?”
“The lazaretto. The leprosy.”
Obeline looked as if I’d struck her. “Who told you this?”
“Who killed Evangeline?”
“I don’t know.” Almost desperate.
“Was it your husband?”
“No!” Her eyes darted like those of a hunted dove.
“He probably killed two little girls.”
“Please. Please. Everything you think is wrong.”
Relentless, I kept my glare aimed at her. Kept hammering. “Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? Have you heard those names?”
Reaching into my purse, I grabbed the envelope, yanked out the photos of Quincy and Cloquet, and thrust them at her.
“Look,” I said. “Look at these faces. Their parents are in pain that never goes dormant.”
She turned her head, but I forced the photos through the crack, keeping them in her field of vision.
Her eyes closed, then her shoulders seemed to turtle in on themselves. When she spoke again, her voice carried a tone of defeat.
“Wait.” The door closed, a chain rattled, then the door reopened. “Come in.”
Ryan and I entered a hallway lined on both sides with pictures of saints. Jude. Rose of Lima. Francis of Assisi. A guy with a staff and a dog.
Obeline led us past a dining room and library to a parlor with a wide-plank floor, heavy oak tables, a scuffed leather sofa, and overstuffed armchairs. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. A stone fireplace rose among the windows, partially blocking a spectacular view of the river.
“Please.” Obeline gestured at the sofa.
Ryan and I sat.
Obeline remained standing, eyes on us, one gnarled hand to her mouth. I couldn’t read her expression. Seconds passed. A solitary drop of sweat slid down her temple. The tactile input seemed to nudge her to action.
“Wait here.” Whirling, she strode through the same archway we’d entered.
Ryan and I exchanged glances. I could tell he was wired.
Morning sun beat down on the glass. Though it was barely eleven, the room was cloyingly warm. I felt my shirt start to wilt.
A door opened, then footsteps clicked up the hall. Obeline reappeared leading a girl of about seventeen.
The pair crossed the room and stood before us.
I felt something balloon in my chest.
The girl stood less than five feet tall. She had pale skin, blue eyes, and thick black hair bobbed at her jawline. It was her smile that snagged and held my gaze. A smile flawed by a single imperfection.
Beside me, I felt Ryan go rigid.
The day had taken a radical turn.
37
I WAS STILL HOLDING THE PHOTO OF CLAUDINE CLOQUET. RYAN’S MP number two. The twelve-year-old who had disappeared in 2002 while riding her bicycle in Saint-Lazare-Sud.
I looked from the girl to the image. Winter white skin. Black hair. Blue eyes. Narrow, pointed chin.
A row of white teeth marred by one rotated canine.
“This is Cecile,” Obeline said, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Cecile, say hello to our guests.”
Ryan and I rose.
Cecile regarded me with open curiosity. “Are those earrings
“Real glass,” I said, smiling.
“They’re very sparkly. Sparkly-o.”
“Would you like them?”
