basin’s lip.
“You won’t tell her, Leduc,” Morbier said.
“Is that a question or a statement?”
He sighed. “A little of both.”
“Ludovic Jubert told me you made a pact in the police academy. A one-for-all, all-for-one kind of thing. Right?”
Morbier averted his eyes and shifted his worn brown shoes.
“So Papa didn’t inform on Rousseau despite his corruption, bound by that promise. Neither did you or Jubert. After Papa died . . . ,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “Rousseau’s report said Papa took the bribes and knew of the arms shipment. It was easier that way, so you two kept your mouths shut as long as Rousseau agreed to retire.”
Morbier stood still. So still she could hear the gurney’s rubber wheels gliding on the floor, the muted sobs of a woman rocking on the bench, covering her face in her hands.
“Life and death hold secrets, Leduc,” he said. “Some are best kept.”
Her papa was clean. She knew, they all knew. Except Laure. But she wouldn’t tell her. Couldn’t.
Out on the quay, they paused, the lighted facade of the Hotel de Ville before them, Notre Dame illuminated on their right. All in her backyard.
She smoothed down the tweed lapel of Morbier’s jacket and stared at the slow-moving Seine. Pinpricks of ice glinted on the iron rungs once used to anchor barges. And at this moment, in the lingering shadows of dusk, with the whine of sirens in the distance, a child’s laughter from a passing stroller, and the Seine lapping below her, she felt at ease with her ghosts. For now.
“Hungry?” she asked.
