Part 50 (1/2)
The woman said something I couldn't hear. Seconds later, I caught a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.
I turned. A pulled window shade was fluttering gently. Had it been raised when we approached the house? I couldn't remember.
”Obeline?”
Silence.
”Please, Obeline?”
Locks turned, the door opened, and Obeline's face appeared in the crack. As before, a scarf covered her head.
She surprised me by speaking English. ”My husband will return soon. He will be angry if he finds you here.”
”We thought you were dead. I was heartbroken. So was Harry.”
”Please leave. I'm fine.”
”Tell me what happened.”
Her lips drew tightly together.
”Who staged a suicide?”
”All I want is to be left alone.”
”I'm not going to do that, Obeline.”
Her eyes jumped over my shoulder, toward the road leading to Chemin Royal.
”Detective Ryan and I will help you. We won't let him hurt you.”
”You don't understand.”
”Help me to understand.”
Color rose in the unscarred skin, grotesquely marbling the right side of her face.
”I don't need to be rescued.”
”I think you do.”
”My husband is not a bad man.”
”He may have killed people, Obeline. Young girls.”
”It's not what you think.”
”That's exactly what he said.”
”Please go.”
”Who broke your arm? Who torched your house?”
Her eyes darkened. ”Why this obsession with me? You show up at my home. You reawaken pain best left dormant. Now you want to destroy my marriage. Why can't you just leave me in peace?”
I tried a Ryan quick-switch. ”I know about Laurette.”
”What?”
”The lazaretto. The leprosy.”
Obeline looked as if I'd struck her. ”Who told you this?”
”Who killed Evangeline?”
”I don't know.” Almost desperate.
”Was it your husband?”
”No!” Her eyes darted like those of a hunted dove.
”He probably killed two little girls.”
”Please. Please. Everything you think is wrong.”
Relentless, I kept my glare aimed at her. Kept hammering. ”Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? Have you heard those names?”
Reaching into my purse, I grabbed the envelope, yanked out the photos of Quincy and Cloquet, and thrust them at her.
”Look,” I said. ”Look at these faces. Their parents are in pain that never goes dormant.”
She turned her head, but I forced the photos through the crack, keeping them in her field of vision.
Her eyes closed, then her shoulders seemed to turtle in on themselves. When she spoke again, her voice carried a tone of defeat.
”Wait.” The door closed, a chain rattled, then the door reopened. ”Come in.”
Ryan and I entered a hallway lined on both sides with pictures of saints. Jude. Rose of Lima. Francis of a.s.sisi. A guy with a staff and a dog.
Obeline led us past a dining room and library to a parlor with a wide-plank floor, heavy oak tables, a scuffed leather sofa, and overstuffed armchairs. One wall was floor-to-ceiling gla.s.s. A stone fireplace rose among the windows, partially blocking a spectacular view of the river.
”Please.” Obeline gestured at the sofa.
Ryan and I sat.
Obeline remained standing, eyes on us, one gnarled hand to her mouth. I couldn't read her expression. Seconds pa.s.sed. A solitary drop of sweat slid down her temple. The tactile input seemed to nudge her to action.