So? What was a little frostbite? I was alive.
Claudette was dead. Murdered. Forever gone.
“That way,” I tried again, but Bene continued into town.
Roux caught me in a bear hug, closing out the light. “Breathe, Gen.”
I was. It was Claudette who wasn’t. Or so Clement claimed. But he was wrong. Terribly wrong. He had to be.
The vehicle stopped at some point, but Roux didn’t release me. I heard Bene exit, then return a minute later, reporting, “He’s not here.”
He, who? Henrik? Clement? Those agents?
Popping my head up, I recognized the compact headquarters of the localgendarme.
Bene twisted around in the driver’s seat, facing Roux and me. His trademark smile was gone, his mouth hard, his eyes full of pity.
“They took Henrik to the nearest DGSI office, just outside Dijon,” he reported.
I pointed down the road. “Henrik doesn’t matter. We have to get to Claudette.”
Bene bit his lip, looking at Roux.
A painfully long silence stretched before Roux nodded. Even then, Bene took a long time getting the van back on the road.
“Faster,” I urged, pointing the way.
His eyes flicked to Roux’s in the rearview mirror, then back to the road.
Five minutes later, he pulled over. I leaped out of the car and ran for the police tape around Claudette’s house.
Roux caught me before I broke through the barrier.
“Claudette…” I called miserably.
The neighbors were out, looking ashen — among them, Madame Fontaine, the retired schoolmistress. She walked straight over and hugged me. And hugged me and hugged me…
“It’s too late,” she whispered. “No one can help.”
It ought to have sounded harsh, but Madame Fontaine was a teacher, and she knew how to hit exactly the right tone. Soft. Sad. Clear. Above all, steady, promising me as bad as this was, we would find a way through.
Slowly, I pulled myself together, asked a few questions, and returned to Bene and Roux.
I hung my head. “Sorry.”
Bene shook his head gently. “No reason to be.”
Easy for him to say.Hisshirt wasn’t stained with my tears — or worse, snot, like Roux’s.
I curled my hands inside my sleeves and wiped the front of Roux’s shirt. “I’m really sorry.”
He caught my hands and waited until I met his eyes. I didn’t want to, but I was glad when I did, because they were as soothing as Madame Fontaine’s gentle tone.
“All good, Geneviève,” he murmured.
I closed my eyes, savoring that tiny moment of calm in a truly terrible world.
Then I swallowed hard, straightened, and looked at the car. “Next stop, Dijon?”
