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As he sat, he mused that Haniya Daoud seemed to own every room she was in. And yet she never seemed to belong.
“Did you kill Debbie Schneider?”
Haniya’s brows disappeared into her hijab. “Small talk, Chief Inspector?”
He smiled, but said nothing.
“Or is this how you investigate a crime? Ask that question over and over until someone says yes?”
“Or it’s time for bed, oui.”
She laughed. It was full-throated and seemed to surprise even her.
“Well,” she finally said, “all I can say is your investigation must be a real shit show if you still suspect me. That is the expression, isn’t it? ‘Shit show’? I learned it from Ruth. She was describing Clara’s career as an artist.”
“Well, that’s one expression, yes. You haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, you were serious?”
He was no longer smiling. His eyes on her were thoughtful, searching.
“No. I didn’t kill her. What I told you before is true. Killing the person does not kill an idea. And if I had wanted to do away with Professor Robinson, I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill the wrong person. I’ve never done that.”
There was a crackling silence between them.
“We all make mistakes. In the cold and dark, in a hurry. It’s possible.”
“True,” she said. “But not that mistake. Human life is sacred. That’s another thing I learned in the camps. When you see so much death, you come to value life. When you see so much cruelty, you come to value kindness.”
“But do you recognize it? Because it’s out there.” He gestured toward the next room. “And you’re in here.” He put down his cup. “I’m going into the living room. Will you join me?”
“No. I’m just fine out here.”
He nodded. “If you change your mind . . .”
What are you doing out there, Ralph?
But he had some idea what Haniya Daoud was doing.
Chapter 43
Couldn’t sleep?” asked Armand.
Though it was almost three in the morning, the voice hadn’t surprised Jean-Guy. He’d heard the slippered feet approaching the kitchen and recognized the gait.
“I haven’t really slept since Honoré was born,” he said.
“Tea?” Armand turned around, kettle in hand.
Beauvoir was about to decline, then realized that yes, a nice cup of tea . . .
Dear God, he thought, I’ve been infected. “Yes, please. Did you hear that?”
Jean-Guy half rose. His face alert, his body tense. There’d been a sound from the front of the house.
“It’s okay,” said Armand, turning off the tap. “I was just about to tell you—”
“Is it morning already?” asked Isabelle. Her cheeks were red from the short walk from the B&B. She carried a plate covered with a checked dish towel and was wearing polka dot flannel pajamas under a plaid flannel robe.
