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Armand paused at the door to Stephen’s apartment, to warn Professor de la Coutu what he was about to see.

The academic had closely examined countless horrific scenes of beheadings, of rapes, of maulings and stonings and crucifixions. Dreadful torments.

All while standing on the other side of the picture.

He was, for the first time in his life, about to step into the frame.

The professor listened and nodded.

Monsieur and Madame Faubourg, the concierges, had told them that the flics had left.

Just before he unlocked the door, Armand’s phone buzzed. He snatched it up and looked at the text. Reine-Marie understood his speed.

It might be the hospital. It might be about Stephen.

But it was from Mrs. McGillicuddy and read, We’re here. Will let you know.

He replaced the phone and opened the door.

The apartment was a shambles. No surprise there, though as he looked around, Armand had the impression it was even worse than when he was last there.

The investigators, of course, would do a thorough search. But a well-trained unit, while not tidying up, did not generally make a crime scene worse.

The curator walked in, curious, as though looking at a new exhibition. Until he saw the stain on the floor. And the outline of the body. Like skin around a hollow man.

De la Coutu stared. Overcome with the realization that somewhere between standing and hitting the ground, a person had become a corpse.

And someone else had done it.

He began to sway, and felt a hand on his arm, leading him away.

“Come over here. Sit down.”

A chair was righted, and when he sat, the same large hand was placed on his back and firmly, carefully, bent him over until his head was between his knees.

“Breathe.”

And he did.

When he raised his head, he was a different man. No longer would he look at a scene of violent death as though it was simply a series of brushstrokes.

“Better?” asked Armand.

He nodded and stood, a little shakily. And looked around. He knew he was there to evaluate the paintings.

Professor de la Coutu took a deep breath, almost a gasp.

“Is that a Rothko?” He went right up to it, his nose almost touching the oil paint. “The one that sold at auction twenty years ago? We had no idea who bought it. Look at all this.”

The curator turned full circle, in wonderment.

“They’d been taken off the walls and their backing ripped,” said Reine-Marie.

“They slashed the paintings?”

He ran over to another one. His arms out in front of him, like a parent rushing to save a falling infant.

He picked up the Vermeer and turned it around.