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Homer was discovered exactly where Vivienne had been found. Knocking gently up against a huge tree trunk.

Only then did Armand and Isabelle return home, watched by Clara, Gabri, Olivier. By Billy Williams and Myrna. By Ruth, with Rosa, who was silent for once. Though she did watch Armand with sad eyes. But then, ducks were often sad.

By that afternoon the sun was out in full force. Snowdrops and fragrant, delicate lily of the valley were beginning to appear. Crocuses broke through the grass of the village green.

Life had not just been restored, it had burst forth, as Isabelle and Jean-Guy, Armand and Reine-Marie walked into the bistro.

They joined Clara and Ruth and Rosa by the fieldstone fireplace. Billy Williams sat at a distance from Myrna but stole glances at her. Catching her eyes once, he smiled. And when Myrna smiled back, he blushed and looked away.

Olivier brought them cafés au lait and warm almond croissants, then perched on the arm of the large chair, next to Gabri.

The fire crackled in the background as they heard what had happened.

Ruth looked down at her thin, veined hand, holding Gabri’s pink, pudgy one.

You would have a different body by then,

An old murky one, a stranger’s body you could

Not even imagine, and you would be lost and alone.

But not lost, she thought.

And not alone.

That evening, Clara was in her studio. Ruth’s final comment as she left to head home, ringing in her ears.

“Maybe there’s a reason they call it a stool,” she’d said, nodding to where Clara sat in front of the easel. “Something to think about.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. But this time it didn’t come from the duck.

Once she stopped muttering, Clara turned to Myrna, who was sitting on the sofa, her bottom resting on the concrete floor. Her knees up around her ears.

“Homer kept saying he was going to kill Tracey,” said Clara. “He even tried. Why would he do that if he knew Tracey hadn’t killed his daughter? Was it an act?”

“I don’t think so,” said Myrna.

“You think Armand and the others might be wrong, and Tracey really did kill Vivienne?”

“No. I think Homer was mad with grief, with guilt. I think he couldn’t bear to accept what he’d done. All those years of abuse and then being responsible for Vivienne’s death.”

“And his granddaughter’s.”

“Yes. I think his own self-loathing and his anger at Tracey for his abuse of Vivienne got all mixed up. He saw himself in Tracey and decided both must die. It’s pretty obvious by what Armand said that Homer meant to take his own life, along with Tracey’s. Both must go into the river.”

“To be cleansed?” asked Clara.

“To be punished.”

“You think his grief was real? It sure seemed real. Fooled everyone, including Armand.”

“I don’t think anyone was fooled. I think Vivienne’s death destroyed Homer. I doubt it was on purpose. I want to believe he went to the bridge to try to make amends.”

“I don’t understand,” said Clara. “He beat her. His own daughter. A child. God knows what else he did to her. And now what? You’re saying he really did love her?”

“I’m saying people change.” She held up her hands to ward off Clara’s protests. “I know, it’s easy to say. And it doesn’t undo the damage. But we’ve seen changes of heart. Changes of perception. It happens. Racists, homophobes, misogynists, they can change. And some do.”

“Truth and reconciliation,” said Clara.