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Remi closes his eyes and fidgets for a few seconds before grinding out his next words. “I saw Perrete. Her face was smashed with a hammer. You know very well which one.”
“The one she stole,” I spit back. “And while we’re on the subject, where exactlydidyou see her body?”
He knows I know. Remi lowers his head to avoid my eyes. “Madame Emeline’s. The morning after. I got to Collis that evening and spent the night there.”
“You are such a lying sack of—”
“I’m trying to be honest now, all right?” he says. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
I push my face up into his. “How is implicating Magister Thomas the right thing?”
He raises an eyebrow. “How is not telling the venatre everything you know about that night any better?”
“Magister Thomas is innocent,” I hiss. “That would only waste Simon’s time.”
Remi snorts. “Your precious Simon would have us question a man who probably cried the last time he stepped on a lady beetle.” He gestures to the flower seller, who wears more lace and ribbons on his sleeves than any lady.
“You’re just jealous,” I accuse. When Remi rolls his eyes, I press my point. “Simon knows things. He understands this murderer in a way that’s almost… almost…”
“Unnatural,” Remi finishes.
I scowl. “I was going to say instinctive.”
He narrows his gaze on me. “Aren’t you curious how he has that instinct?”
Before I can think of a good answer, a commotion erupts as three city guards approach, half-carrying a man wearing night-clothes and wooden clogs. As soon as he sees Simon, he bursts into sobs. “Venatre!” he cries. “My wife has been murdered!”
I wish I could say Simon looks surprised, but he doesn’t.
