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“Not me.”
“The father of her child—”
“Not me.”
Hearing the anger in Cameron’s voice, Henri got to his feet and turned to face him. A low, low growl in his chest. Little Gracie stood beside him, all eyes. Barely larger than Cameron’s boot, she tried to stare down the man who loomed over them.
“Stop lying.” Gamache dropped his hand to Henri’s head. To reassure him. “It was your number she was trying to call. The affair wasn’t over, was it?”
“It was.”
“She wanted to meet you earlier. That’s why she called.” Something about that statement gave Gamache a moment’s pause. But he had to press on. “She didn’t get through to you, because she’d written your number down wrong. One digit was off. So she showed up at the prearranged time. Midnight. And there you were. For the regular assignation.”
“No.”
“Expecting sex. Instead she told you she was pregnant and the child was yours. She might even have believed it. She told you she was leaving her husband, for you. She had her duffel bag over her shoulder. All packed. Had been for months, waiting for the right time. And this was it.”
“No.” Cameron shot to his feet.
Gamache could see the veins throbbing on Cameron’s forehead as the big man tried to control his anger.
“It was over. I wasn’t there.”
Gamache also got up. And got right into Cameron’s space. Into his face. “What did she do? Threaten to go to your wife? Your work? And when she refused to just go away, you pushed her.”
“No.”
“You pushed a pregnant woman to her death.”
“No, never!”
Cameron heaved off and gave Gamache a mighty shove. Propelling him backward.
Henri barked and crouched, prepared to lunge.
“Henri, stay!” Gamache commanded as he regained his balance.
And Henri did. As did Gracie. Just. It clearly went against their every instinct.
Because he was prepared for it, had intentionally provoked it, Gamache had staggered but managed to keep to his feet, despite the force of the blow.
Which was far more than a young woman taken by surprise could possibly have done.
“Vivienne happened,” said Lysette Cloutier.
Lacoste recognized the look in Cloutier’s eyes. It was the expression of someone who’d made up her mind to walk off a cliff. And was just about to do it.
Still, Isabelle coaxed her forward. “Go on.”
“Homer and I hadn’t been intimate yet, but it was close. We finally admitted our feelings. I wonder if you know what that’s like? To be in love with someone for years, maybe decades, and then, in your forties, to have those feelings returned. It felt like a miracle. It was a miracle. But Homer said he owed it to Vivienne to tell her, before we took it further.”
Lysette lowered her head and narrowed her eyes. Then she raised her head. High. And looked directly at Superintendent Lacoste.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“What happened?” Lacoste asked.
She noticed that Beauvoir had turned back to his laptop and was reading something. A message. But she kept her focus on the middle-aged accountant–cum–homicide agent. Cum suspect. In front of her.
