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Her boss had just hung up from a call and was working on reports.
Going to the cabinet, Nichol chose a file, then put on her coat and knocked on the boss’s door.
“Oui?” Tardiff looked over her reading glasses at her assistant.
“I’m not really feeling all that well, patronne. Would you mind if I went home?”
“No, that’s fine. A cold?”
“Must be. Change of seasons. And I went for a walk last night without a coat.”
“Why?”
Oh, God, why?? “I didn’t realize it was that cold.” Oh, for fuck’s sake, stop talking, she begged herself. You sound like a fool. “Sinuses are now acting up. Giving me a migraine.”
“Absolutely, you need to go home.” Tardiff returned to her computer screen. “Don’t give it to me.”
“The migraine upsets my stomach.” Stop talking. You have the win. “Or maybe it’s food poisoning.”
By now Chief Inspector Tardiff’s expression had gone from sympathy to boredom to annoyance. Nichol finally stopped herself, before her boss hit disbelief.
“I’ll just take this file down to records and leave.”
Tardiff held out her hand. “Don’t bother. Give it to me and I’ll have someone else take it. What is it?”
Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck.
“Just something they asked for.”
Tardiff’s hand was still out. And now the Chief opened and closed her fingers in the signal to hurry up and bring it to her.
Nichol did.
“These are requisitions for printer paper.” Tardiff looked at her. “Why would records need them?”
“Did I say records? Désolée. Must be the meds I just took. Clouding my mind. I meant supply and services, for reimbursement.” Stop talking.
Fortunately, what she said was so mind-numbing, the head of Organized Crime for the Sûreté stopped caring.
“Fine. Take them down and leave.” Then, as an afterthought: “Feel better.”
“Merci.” As she left Yvette attempted a dry cough. It at least sounded pathetic.
Armand’s head was tipped back, his arms out to catch Isabelle, should she fall.
He barely noticed his soaked slacks clinging to his legs, numbing them. His hands shook from the cold.
Still, he kept his arms out and strained to see her. The sack had been hung so far up, she had to climb from branch to branch, at times disappearing into the foliage before reappearing.
At one point a branch broke and fell. For an instant Gamache braced, thinking the woman would follow. She did not. He sidestepped the limb, never taking his eyes off Isabelle.
This was pretty much his nightmare, having to climb that high. He was endlessly grateful that while Isabelle had other fears, heights was not one.
“I’m there, patron.” He waited for more, his eyes peeled, his arms still out. Then he heard her say, “Mon Dieu.”
“What?” he called.
“I’m leaving it in the bag, but—”
