Page 27

She didn’t say it now. She was far too sophisticated for that. But she’d said it to him.

And she was right. But it could also have been better.

That was, Armand realized, the professor in brief. Stating a truth, but leaving out a greater truth.

He appeared in the report, answering questions about public safety and reassuring the population that this was a targeted crime. They were safe.

On the television, Armand praised the audience members for their extraordinary restraint in not panicking. In helping each other get out, and once out, comforting those who needed help. He talked about their caring for, and about, each other. And what a difference that made.

He praised the building caretaker and the Sûreté officers who’d done their duty under extremely trying conditions.

Annie saw her husband drop his eyes and stare at the rug between his slippered feet.

“Jean-Guy?” she whispered.

He turned and looked at her, managing a smile.

She smiled back. Warm. Loving. Supportive. He wondered how long that would last, if she learned the truth. No, he thought. Not if, but when. He knew he’d tell her what he did, and what he did not do.

But first, he had to talk with Armand.

After the news, they said bonne nuit and went to bed. Though Armand still had work to do.

He sat at his laptop, reading updates and writing reports.

Around him the house settled into familiar sounds. Water running. Footsteps on creaky floorboards overhead. Muffled conversations that became hushed, then fell to silence.

The slight groans and cracks as the temperature dropped still further and frost crept once again into the bricks and beams of the old home.

Armand could sense Jean-Guy’s presence before he actually saw him. He could always tell when the younger man was close.

After finishing the last email of the evening, a detailed report to the Premier of Québec, he turned.

“Yes?”

“Can we talk?”

Armand reached over and turned off the lamp on his desk, then got up.

Using his reading glasses, he pointed into the empty living room and the fire dying in the grate. As he left his study, he glanced at the stairs, which would take him up to bed. To Reine-Marie.

He could decline to talk with Jean-Guy, explaining that he was tired. It would wait until morning. He could climb the stairs, shower, then pull up the comforter and feel it warming up around his body. Feel her, warm in his arms.

But he knew this really would not wait. They needed to talk. This was another injury done that day. Best not to let it fester.

“Actually,” said Jean-Guy, “I was hoping we could get out of the house.”

“The dogs have already been walked.” Armand had decided to call Gracie a dog, for simplicity’s sake. And for his own peace of mind. Who needed a chipmunk in the house?

Though Stephen had now taken to telling the children that, after careful scientific study, he’d concluded that Gracie was almost certainly a ratmunk. A fantastical cross between a chipmunk and a rat.

“With, just possibly,” he’d explained as they bent toward him, “a bit of duck. We’ll have to wait until Gracie gets older, to see if she can fly.”

“Fly?” sighed Zora.

It was hard to tell if the children actually believed him, but they at least humored the elderly man.

“I was thinking the bistro,” said Jean-Guy.