Page 29

All the way home in the taxi, all he’d wanted to do was hug Reine-Marie, have a hot shower, and crawl into bed. But now he just sat at the kitchen table, staring ahead.

Reine-Marie put the battered kettle on the gas ring and brought out the teapot.

The kitchen was old-fashioned. They’d discussed updating it, but somehow it never got done. Probably because neither really wanted to change it. It was the same as when Armand’s grandmother Zora was alive and had bustled around it, chatting away in her strange mix of Yiddish and German and French.

She’d learned Yiddish and French growing up in Paris. And German in the camps.

She’d left the apartment to him in her will, along with all she possessed. Which mostly amounted to her love, which was plentiful, and which he carried with him always.

“Nein. Opshtel,” Armand could almost hear her say. “Stop. Tea always better when wasser isn’t quite bouillant. You should know by now,” she’d chastise him.

“Don’t plotz,” he’d invariably reply, which amused her greatly.

His grandmother was long dead, and now he watched Reine-Marie, brushing gray hair from her eyes, move about the kitchen. She brought the teapot over, nicely steeped, with a jug of milk from the cranky old fridge.

“Merci,” he said, stirring in sugar. “They say he probably has brain damage, but at least there’s activity there.”

Reine-Marie sipped her tea. She knew Armand was thinking the same thing, but couldn’t yet say it.

When they finished their tea, Armand had a hot shower, turning his face into the water. Tasting the salt from his face.

Crawling into bed beside Reine-Marie, he fell immediately into a deep sleep.

Three hours later he woke up, with light streaming through the lace curtains. In the first flush of consciousness he felt completely at peace. Here in this familiar apartment. Surrounded by familiar scents that evoked such a deep contentment.

But a second later he remembered and immediately reached for his phone, checking for messages.

There was none from the hospital.

Reine-Marie was already up. She’d been out to the shops along rue Rambuteau, and brought back fresh croissants from their favorite patisserie, Pain de Sucre.

He followed the scent of strong, rich coffee into the kitchen and saw cheese and raspberries and ripe pears on the table. Along with the croissants. And a pain aux raisins, bought with Stephen the day before.

“Up already?” she asked. “How did you sleep?”

“Well. Very well,” he said, kissing her. “Not long, but deeply.”

“Nothing more from the hospital?”

“Non. How are you?”

“I think I’m still in shock. I can barely believe it even happened.”

He hugged her, then went off and showered again and shaved. As he dressed, he saw his clothing from the night before, tossed onto the chair. Even from across the room, he could see the blood.

He checked again for messages, scanning for the one he dreaded. But it wasn’t there. Surely the hospital would have gotten in touch if …

Over breakfast he called Daniel, then Annie. He’d texted them the night before with an update, but wanted to find out how they were.

Jean-Guy got on the phone. “Any word from the cops?”

“Non. I’m just about to call.”

“Are they treating this as attempted murder?”

“Yes.”

Jean-Guy heaved a sigh. “Thank God for that. What can I do?”