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“I can’t help but feel that Comeau knows something,” said Jean-Guy.

“I get the same feeling,” agreed Isabelle. “But I don’t know if he’s trying to solve the murder—”

“Or if he’s the solution. I’ve put our cybercrimes team onto Jeanette Bouchard’s and Brian Fillmore’s computers. By morning, we should have some idea what they searched and who they wrote to.”

“And they might have repaired the cassette by then. Imagine Reine-Marie finding it.”

“She’ll put us out of a job,” said Jean-Guy with a laugh.

Isabelle checked the time and got up. It was almost one o’clock. “Coming?”

“Soon.”

She studied him. “You okay?”

“Yes. I’ll finish my tea and lock up.”

She looked around. At the array of bottles. “I’ll just sit with you.”

“I’m okay.” The edge of annoyance in his voice told her she was doing the right thing by staying despite her own exhaustion.

“I know you are.” She sat beside him. “Just sometimes we need to know we’re not alone.”

A few minutes later, after washing their mugs, they strolled through the night, pausing to look up at the stars, so bright they felt they could reach out and touch them. Within twenty minutes, after showering the grave off her body, Isabelle was asleep in her room in the B&B.

Next door, Jean-Guy stared at the ceiling. Willing himself not to sleep. Not to sleep. Not to close his eyes …

The water was up to his chin. He strained his head, his mouth, his nose up as far as it would go. And struggled. Struggled.

But he was caught.

CHAPTER 47

The metal door out of third class onto the deck had warped as the ship twisted onto her side. It was all happening so quickly. Men, women, children were piled up against the door. The body of an infant, a little girl Idola’s age, floated by.

Jean-Guy shoved people aside and pulled, yanked, trying to haul the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he saw some men, slender young crew members, squeezing through open portholes. A mother had pushed her boy through and was preparing to do the same. The child was crying, hysterical on the other side.

The mother was partway through the porthole when Jean-Guy reached her. And pulled her back. Despite her pounding on his back, he climbed onto bodies and pushed his head and shoulders through the hole. He could see the open water. He could see, he thought, a light on the shore.

He could see safety.

But. He was stuck. Wedged in. He wiggled and squirmed and fought. But he couldn’t move forward. Or back. The ship was tipping further over. His body was twisting around, so that he was now facing up. Looking into the clear night sky, at the stars. So close …

He shouted for help. But no one came to his aid. The little boy was within inches of his face, screaming for his mommy.

The water was rising. Rising. The boy floated away, flailing and shrieking.

The water was over his chin now. Pouring into his mouth. Up his nose.

He screamed.

“Jean-Guy!”

He sat up so quickly he knocked heads with Isabelle, who reeled back, then came forward again. Rubbing her forehead and staring at him.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

Jean-Guy thrashed to get free of the sheets twisted around his arms and legs, his torso.