“Are you all right? My God, we thought you were … don’t you realize …?” Pierre’s words died in his throat. His shoulders heaved, and he pulled Zazie to him. “You’re back. That’s what matters.”
Zazie nodded. Her lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Papa …” And she ended in tears.
Virginie wiped her wet cheeks with her sleeve. “Merci, Aimée. Forgive me for doubting you. But where …?”
Aimée put a finger to her lips. Gave a warning nod.
Understanding filled Virginie’s eyes. She hugged her daughter again. “Plenty of time to talk about things later. Are you hungry?”
Time to leave them together.
ON LEDUC DETECTIVE’S landing, Aimée felt an ominous rumble in her stomach. The taste of acid bile. Her damp tunic clung to her spine, to her arms. Her shoulder stung. She reached for the dressing, and her hand came back wet and sticky. Blood. Her stitches had broken open.
She made it past the office door and down the hallway to the bathroom before she felt the heave and nausea overtook. A loud burp erupted and then she lost the coffee all over the tiles. She heaved and panted until nothing else could come up.
Again and again. She washed her face and mopped up the floor. Her fingers trembled applying steri-strips in place of her busted stitches.
Her stomach curdled at the risk she’d taken. Yet if she hadn’t, could she have lived with herself? She’d saved Zazie. Done what she’d promised.
Then, like a little fish, the baby moved. She leaned on the small porcelain sink, felt the tension draining from her. Zazie was safe. She kept repeating the words inside her head. Zazie was safe.
Forget the image of Madame Vasseur on the cobbles, the blood seeping through her jacket. Her vacant eyes and slack jaw. That momentary hesitation—as if she’d wanted to say something, and now she never would. What could it have been that the woman was about to say? Who was it that had killed her? Aimée shivered, realizing that Zazie might be safe, but the danger was far from over.
Work was waiting—she had so much to catch up on. With the tension gone, she felt limp, tired. She wanted to put her feet up. That’s what she’d do, stretch out on the recamier and get down to reports that needed attention. Run the virus scans she’d promised René, or face mutiny.
INSIDE LEDUC DETECTIVE’S frosted-glass door, she unwrapped her silk scarf and turned to face Madame Vasseur’s red-eyed husband.
“You, you’re the one,” he said, irate. His linen suit hung from his shoulders. Anger emanated from him in waves. “Hounding my wife, and now she’s … she’s dead.”
René, sitting on his ergonomic chair tailored to his height, shot her a look. “I’ve explained to Monsieur Vasseur that he needs to speak with the Brigade Criminelle.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said.
The man, grief-stricken and angry, was lashing out at whatever target he could. That she understood. Still, guilt flooded her for not saving the woman.
“I’m so sorry, Monsieur,” she said. “If it’s any consolation, Zazie’s home with her family.”
“And where’s my family?” he said, advancing on her. Stupid. Not the most tactful reply.
He shook his fist. “Look at you, walking around stirring up trouble. The shooter was aiming at you, and now my wife’s dead.”
She hated to think that it could be true—she might have brought that danger down on Madame Vasseur. She shook it off. Thinking that wouldn’t help either of them now.
“You blame me, I understand,” she said. “But shouldn’t you focus your energy on catching your wife’s murderer? The man who raped your daughter?”
His face twisted in shame. “How dare you?” He raised his arm, ready to strike her. She stepped back, tired, sick of everything that had happened, exhausted by this poor man’s gut-wrenching pain and fury. Felt the Beretta in her back pocket hit the copier-machine lid.
“Hitting a pregnant woman won’t change what’s happened, Monsieur.” René stood at the open door of Leduc Detective.
Thank God. She threw him a grateful look.
“My colleague was shot trying to protect your wife,” said René. “She’s not your enemy here. Think of your daughter. She needs you, Monsieur.”
“Yesterday your wife called me,” said Aimée. “Wanted me to hear a message Mélanie had left her with more information about the man who attacked her. She thought I might be able to help her understand it. Your wife was trying to help Zazie.”
“And died in the process?”
“Your wife wanted the rapist caught,” she said. “Zazie disappeared, and we thought the rapist had taken her.”
“Didn’t the flics catch him?” Defeat painted his face, now devoid of anger. “The comatose pedophile who’ll never wake up and face justice.”
“But another girl was almost attacked,” she said. “The answer’s on your wife’s phone. Mélanie’s message with the description of her attacker.” Aimée stepped forward. “Your wife hesitated—I think she wanted to tell me something else.”
For a moment fear flashed in his eyes.
“Any idea of what she wanted to say, Monsieur?”
“How would I know?” A line of silent tears dripped to his collar.
“Where’s your wife’s phone?” Aimée asked gently.
But his gaze was unfocused. His collar was wet.
“I don’t know,” he said, deflated, his voice far away. “I’m due at the morgue to identify her.”
“Ask them for it.” Unless the shooter took it. Could that have been the real aim? But she couldn’t think about that now. “Have you told Mélanie yet?”
“Don’t hound my daughter. I forbid you to contact her. Leave her alone. She’s lost her mother.”
“Then let me know if you find the phone, Monsieur.”
But he’d gone out the door.
RENé SHOOK HIS head. “How can he blame you?”
“In a way he’s right,” she said, saddened. “His wife called me to arrange a meeting, then had second thoughts. Did her best to shake me off, all to avoid …”
“The pain of her daughter’s rape?” René interrupted.