“Madame Brigitte is free to unburden her heart to you,” Mireille says at length. “I’m not. I’ve signed papers, I’ve?—”
She brings herself up short and looks away.
When her gaze returns, it holds something final. “It was an honor to meet you, Your Grace. I’m tired now. I need to rest.”
“Of course.” I stand. “Forgive my intrusion. You’ve been very gracious.”
She walks me to the door.
We say goodbye.
As I step out, she speaks again, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop clawing at graves.”
I freeze in the doorway.
“Truth will not protect you or your child, Your Grace,” she adds. “It will hurt you both. You can trust me on this.”
33
EVA
Igrip the wheel tighter as the spire of Saint-Aurin fades in the rearview mirror.
Brigitte sits beside me, prim and sober in her Sunday best with pearls and gloves in place and lips pressed like she’s still inside the church.
The confirmation ceremony was moving, though drawn out. Twelve kids in stiff suits and white dresses, tense under all the attention. Their misty-eyed families were caught between pride and melancholy. The priest tried not to sound rehearsed after giving this same sermon a thousand times.
Brigitte and I sat through it all, smiling benevolently, acknowledging bows and curtsies, trading greetings and saying something personal and special to each family.
Noblesse oblige.
I steer the car off the main road and drive up toward a scenic overlook where the valley spreads wide with vineyards forming a patchwork under a crisp autumn sun.
When I kill the engine, Brigitte looks at me, puzzled. “Why are we stopping here?”
“We need to talk.”
“About?” Her voice is cool, a warning to tread carefully.
“Rodolphe,” I say. “And Geoffroy.”
Her pearl earring trembles. “There’s nothing to say.”
“There is,” I counter. “You can tell me, Brigitte. I already know what happened.”
Her gnarled fingers tense on her lap as she studies me. I give her my best poker face to hide that I’m speculating.
She narrows her eyes. “If you knew, you wouldn’t be asking.”
I go all in. “I know Geoffroy killed his father. What I want to hear is how.”
She inhales sharply, then looks at the vineyards. “Nonsense.”
“Should I call the coroner, then?” I say. “Ask why he closed that report so quickly? Or push for an exhumation and a second autopsy? The press would eat that up, and the whispers would spread from Aymon to Pombrio in a day.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
