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“Non. I think they knew we wouldn’t believe it. But they want us to see the threat. As a warning.”

Like a head on a stake during the Terror, he thought.

“To show us what they can do, to Daniel, to any of us, if they want,” said Reine-Marie.

“Yes.”

“Armand, that request at the archives was made five weeks ago. They’ve been planning this for that long?”

“At least.”

“They’re ready for us,” she said. “They know exactly what we’ll do.”

“Not completely,” said Armand. “They couldn’t have foreseen that we’d be right there when Stephen was hit. Or for us to be the ones to find Alexander Plessner’s body. This was all supposed to happen when we were at home in Québec. By the time we arrived, Stephen’s death would be ruled a hit-and-run, Plessner’s body would be removed. And whatever they were looking for would be found. We’ve messed up their careful plans. They’re scrambling.”

“But Daniel’s name in the archive requests?”

“They had to put someone’s name,” said Armand. “Whoever found those documents couldn’t use their own.”

“But how did they even know about Daniel?” She looked at him, and blanched. “Because they knew about you. Claude Dussault knows you. Knows Daniel. He did it.”

“I think so.”

“But how did he know we’d go looking?”

“He couldn’t have,” said Armand. “Not then. He was preparing for all the scenarios. What would happen if I came over, if I had my doubts about Stephen’s accident. If I started looking deeper.”

“You’d find Daniel. Oh, God.” But then her face cleared. “Could this be a good thing? If they found the old file and threatened Stephen with it, expecting he’d back down, then they clearly don’t know Stephen. And if they used Daniel’s name to threaten us, they clearly don’t know us. They think they do, but they don’t. They might be powerful, but they’re also arrogant. Surely that’s an advantage.”

Now Armand also smiled. “You’re right. They don’t know us.”

The waiter brought their salads. After she left, Reine-Marie said, “You spoke to Daniel this morning about Monsieur Plessner. How did it go?”

“He admitted he knew Plessner.”

“And?”

“And that’s all. It didn’t go well.” He was quiet for a moment. “But I did find out what’s come between us all these years.”

Reine-Marie put down her fork and listened as he told her.

After he’d finished, she sat back and stared at him. “He heard? That Christmas Eve?”

“But he didn’t understand.”

“He was a child. He thought I was crying because I was upset. Any child would. But they were tears of relief that you didn’t take the job. Once you explained, did he feel better?”

“Non. I don’t think he believed me.”

“He’s invested too much in this,” she said. “If he admits he’s wrong, it means admitting he’s wasted all those years shutting you out. Give him time. At least he’s told you. At least we know.”

“Oui.”

But Armand also knew the trauma of losing parents.

And now he knew that every day, since the age of eight, his own boy had waited for the inevitable knock on the door.

What did that do to a sensitive child? To live with such anticipated grief?