“Why, Renaud?” Her hand gripped the Perrier bottle behind her. “Why this infatuation with young girls who play violin?”
“I grew up on music.” He smiled. “My father sent me to violin lessons my whole childhood, until I was twelve. And she played the Paganini piece, exquisite and exciting.”
“Paulette Destel,” Aimée said. “Another pupil of Madame de Langlet. But your father hushed it up.”
His eyes went faraway. “I remember those lace curtains in Paulette’s parents’ salon, that burnished patina of her violin. So hot that afternoon. Paulette’s skin flushed pink, those notes … I wanted to be with her,” he said, his phrasing like an adolescent’s. “You know, like my papa was with his mistress. Paulette did, too, but she pretended she didn’t. They all do. They lie to me.”
His open man-child gaze and matter-of-fact tone chilled her.
“Papa sent me to a boys’ boarding school after. It wasn’t the same. I don’t like boys. Then university.”
Her gaze flicked over to the yard, calculating how many steps it would take, how fast she could run.
“Renaud, you’re married now,” she said, edging away. “Brianne’s sweet, beautiful. Blonde.”
“Six months we’ve been married, but she’s impatient.”
Six months—that was how long ago the rapes had started.
“Papa’s pushing us to have a baby, carry on his name,” said Renaud, twisting the rag. “An heir and a spare, he’s always harping. Then Brianne’s constant pressure. She doesn’t understand.”
He wrenched the greasy rag in his hands.
“So you follow little girls home from their violin lessons,” she said. “Relive being twelve years old with Paulette and force yourself on them.”
She’d reached the old stable door. Her back pressed against the handle. She could do this, she could get away, keep her baby safe. Made herself breathe and reached the handle. Pulled. Didn’t budge. Locked.
Before she could make a break and run, his arm was around her neck. She choked and tried to kick him.
“You need more than help, Renaud,” she said. Her words came out in gasps. He’d pinned her to the wall. Her arms stuck behind her. “To be … stopped. Stopped before you rape your little niece.”
“But émilie likes to sit on my lap. Wants to cuddle with me.”
His eyes went dreamlike again, his short, soft, panting breath hitting her face. It made her insides crawl.
“She’s just a child.”
Then he stuffed the greasy rag in her mouth. She struggled, but he swooped his leg behind hers and turned her. Panicked, she tried to break her fall as best she could, but he hoisted her shoulders and dragged her back into the bushes, her heels trailing in the dirt. And then in the shadows he stuck the sharp tip of the Luger in her rib.
“I didn’t want to have to do this, Aimée,” he said. “I like babies.”
With all her might she whacked the Perrier bottle at his temple. He cried out in pain but didn’t let go. She hit harder at his face until the bottle shattered.
She jabbed the jagged, broken bottle neck in his thigh. Crying out, he dropped her, the Luger falling beside him. He clutched his bleeding head, moaning.
She spit the rag out of her mouth.
A sobbing came from the bushes. Light flicked on behind, silhouetting a shaking figure.
“How could you?” Brianne’s shoulders were heaving. Teary mascara streaked down her cheek. “All this time … when you won’t touch me, making me wonder what’s wrong with me.”
Aimée’s fingers scrabbled in the dirt and pebbles for the Luger’s black handle. Had he taken out the guard?
“Waiting for you every night.” Brianne’s voice rose. Shouting and crying. “Therapy sessions and you lied, lied, lied.”
Blood matted Renaud’s temple. “Little girls like when I’m nice to them, Brianne,” he said in a whimper. “Try to understand.”
“That you’re a pervert?” Brianne reached down and grabbed the Luger. “Can’t act like a man? But you can’t, can you? You’ll never touch émilie.”
Aimée vibrated in fear. “Put that down, Brianne.”
“Never touch her, you hear me?” Brianne’s finger curled around the trigger.
What could she use to stop the woman?
“Aimée?” shouted René. Footsteps pounded.
“Behind the cage,” she called. “Hurry.”
“You’re sick.” Brianne’s hand wobbled. “A disgusting pervert.” Wild-eyed, she pointed at Renaud.
Aimée flung a handful of dirt at Brianne’s face. She stepped back, teetering, and squeezed the trigger. A loud crack. Glass splintered from the winter garden, sending gleaming shards over the rabbit hutch.
By the time Aimée managed to grab Brianne’s ankles and pull her down, René had grabbed the Luger and ejected the cartridges.
“Sorry I’m late.” René stood panting, looking from one to the other. “Johnny Hallyday’s grandmère sold Monsieur Lavigne a Luger comme ?a. I’ve got the receipt dated 1978, too.”
“Why don’t you take care of Renaud?” she said, wiping the perspiration from her neck. “Let’s get some gun residue on his fingertips.”
René gave a grim nod. “With pleasure.” He judo-kicked the squirming Renaud in the crotch. Then again. With his handkerchief René wiped off the Luger’s handle, put it into a moaning Renaud’s hand and fired at the bushes.
She took Brianne’s face in her hands. “Brianne. Listen. We have only minutes. You never fired the Luger, compris? You discovered your husband attacking me, he confessed that he raped twelve-year-old girls after their violin lessons. That he hurt one so badly she died. He taunted you about your niece. He pulled out the Luger … thank God he missed.”
“But …”
“Do you want him off the street?”
Brianne’s shoulders heaved. “What have I done?” Her face streaked with dust and mascara. “He’s my husband. I can’t …”
Aimée wanted to slap her. “Wake up. Ten years ago his father paid off the police and Madame de Langlet. He used his influence and connections to cover up.”