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“Then he’s sure to be in.” He was walking to the door.

“Armand, stop.” It was a command. From Reine-Marie.

And he did. But he remained with his back to her. Not, for the moment, wanting her to see the rage, the outrage he felt toward their son.

The hurt.

“He lied.”

“Yes,” said Reine-Marie. “But storming over there isn’t going to help. You know that.”

Now he did turn and held her eyes. “He lied. Not just to the police, but to us.”

To me.

“He was probably in shock when Commander Fontaine said it was Alexander Plessner who’d been killed,” said Reine-Marie. “You know Daniel. He feels things deeply and takes his time to think things over. But he gets there.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Come home,” said Reine-Marie. “Sleep on it. You can speak with him in the morning. If you go over now, who knows what’ll happen. What’ll be said that can’t be unsaid. Please.”

She held out her hand. Armand looked at it. Then, nodding, he took it.

“You’re right. It’ll keep ’til morning.” He turned to Annie. “Will you be going to the hotel?”

“First thing in the morning, yes,” said Annie. “Once Honoré’s awake. Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Daniel’s a good man. He’s not involved in this. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

But he didn’t dare look Jean-Guy in the eye. He knew what he’d find there.

If anyone else in a homicide investigation had blatantly lied about knowing the victim, they’d move way up the suspect list.

And Daniel’s actions were suspect, at the very least.

Once home, they decided to leave the dishes for the morning and dropped into bed, exhausted.

Armand expected to toss and turn, but instead he fell into an immediate and deep sleep and awoke to the sound of rain pelting against the bedroom window.

It was dawn on a drizzly Sunday morning. As he closed the window, Armand looked out and into the living room of the apartment across the narrow street.

It belonged to a young couple with a child. He didn’t know their names, though they sometimes waved to each other. But it was too early for anyone to be up.

Except, maybe. He scanned the street below but saw no one watching their apartment. But then, anyone SecurForte-trained would make sure not to be seen.

Though, oddly, Jean-Guy’s man had not only been spotted, several times, but made sure he was recognized. No doubt a scare tactic.

It seemed, this Sunday morning, that no one was trying to scare him.

He looked at the bedside clock. Six fifteen.

As he showered, he thought about Daniel. As he dressed, he thought about Daniel. Then, leaving Reine-Marie fast asleep in the bedroom, he did the dishes as quietly as he could.

And thought about Daniel. About what to do. What to say.