“My dad told you that my mom fell in love with this doctor?”
“Quite the opposite. He insisted that their brief connection didn’t mean a thing. But the fact that he and your mother left everything behind to live on the opposite side of the world leads me to believe that he took her away from someone who was more than just a crush.”
“I’m inclined to believe him. Mom never said a thing to me about it, and I was her best friend.”
“You were her daughter. I don’t know very many parents who would share such a big secret with their children, especially one that involved loving a man who wasn’t their father.”
At first, Manon was speechless. The detective sat quietly, giving her time to process what she’d just learned. She soon pulled herself together and decided she had no reason to judge. If her mother had had feelings for another man, that was her story to tell or not to tell, and it appeared she’d turned the page and left that chapter behind her. Manon thought back to the vague reasons her parents had given whenever she’d asked why they’d left France to live in San Francisco. “Because of your father’s work,” Camille had always explained. And every time Manon had tried to ask if her mother had found it hard to leave her family and friends, she had replied with a smile and a shrug. But, Manon realized now, her mother had always said “because of,” never “thanks to.” The detective was right—a person didn’tmove to the other side of the globe over a simple fling. Manon felt angry with herself for not figuring this out sooner. Then she felt angry with her mother for never telling her. She would have loved to have been confided in, to hear her mother tell the story of a passionate love affair—especially one she’d personally experienced. Who was this man who’d stolen her heart? What must he have looked like? What had he promised her to sweep her off her feet? Had they only exchanged words and stolen moments, or had they loved each other with every part of themselves?
“And you think Thomas knew about all this?” she asked.
“Only you can answer that question—you know him better than I do. I’ve never even met the man. You still don’t think he’s guilty, do you?” Pilguez asked on his way to the door.
“I don’t know,” Manon replied. “Maybe he was clumsy by the altar, but the rest ... no, no. It’s impossible.”
“I have a hard time believing it too. That said, I doubt his presence at the Columbarium was a simple coincidence.”
Manon remained silent for a moment. “Maybe he was hoping to bring his father’s remains there someday?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Did he tell you where he was staying?”
“No, but you’d be too late, anyway,” Manon told him. “He’s already gone. His plane left this afternoon.”
“Here’s hoping that urn magically reappears so I can close this case and save myself a ton of paperwork. If you see him again, ask him about it. You never know.”
Pilguez said goodbye and walked out of the bookstore, pointing menacingly at her car as he left, to remind her about their agreement.
Thomas hadn’t said a word in quite some time. Every now and again he stood up and paced the room, glancing at his suitcase and then at his father, before returning to the couch, a gloomy look on his face. Finally, Raymond couldn’t stand it anymore.
“What on earth is bothering you?”
“The idea of leaving you alone on our last night together. The idea that it’s our last night together at all.”
“I saw there’s a match at Levi’s Stadium this afternoon. American football, but still—it would bring back some good memories. I don’t know if you remember—you must have been about eight, I think—but you used to love the Paris Saint-Germain soccer team. One day, after they’d lost their third game in a row, I threw my newspaper to the ground and told you that I was done with them for good, just to tease you. I swore to cheer for their archrivals, the Olympique de Marseille, from that day on. You wouldn’t talk to me for over a week. I thought it was hysterical, right up until your mother asked me to put a stop to it, explaining that you were truly upset. I went to see you in your room that night to apologize and explain, but you were hard to convince.”
“I don’t really feel like going to a game,” Thomas said quietly.
“Do you know what you said to me that night? That I shouldn’t give up when things get tough. You told me that I could cheer for whomever I wanted once PSG had won the title, but until then, they needed our support.”
“So? I was eight.”
“So, don’t give up.”
“On you?”
“No, on your passion for life. I need to know it’s there, now more than I ever have before, or I’ll feel guilty for eternity.”
“Do you really want to go to the game?”
“What I would have really loved to do is take you out for ice cream. But that’s beyond my means.”
“How long?” Thomas said, looking directly at his father.
“You say that like I have a terminal illness.”
The joke didn’t even coax a smile from Thomas, who headed back toward the bedroom.
“I’m sorry.” Raymond flickered and then reappeared in front of his son.
