В сердце большого города скрываются тайны и загадки. Каждое утро открывает новый слой этой истории, напоминая о безвозвратности прошлого. Внутренние драмы и судьбы, переплетающиеся в пространстве и времени, создают непредсказуемую атмосферу будничной мелодрамы.
“Niece? That’s what he told you? And you believed him? You’re dumber than I thought.”
The truth dropped into place like a guillotine blade.
“Just leave him alone.”
I was listening to a dial tone.
24
AFTER LYING AWAKE MOST OF THE NIGHT FEELING MORE despondent than Anne, I began to sleep in fitful intervals.
Toward morning, I dreamed Ryan and I were in a long, dark tunnel. As we spoke, Ryan receded farther and farther from me, until his body was a hazy silhouette at the tunnel’s mouth.
I tried to follow, but my legs were tar.
Something skittered past me in the dark, dry and spidery like the wing of a bat.
I tried to raise my arm. It wouldn’t move.
The thing brushed my cheek.
I flailed at it.
And awoke to find Birdie licking my face.
The tunnel monsieur phoned as I was crunching cornflakes and toast. I’d resolved I would go to Candiac with him as planned. I wanted to talk with Rose Fisher. After that, it was sayonara. Too much heartache. Too many sleepless nights.
Too many prom queens.
I’d considered, but decided against a confrontation concerning the woman at Ryan’s home. I’d been betrayed once. I’d played out that drama. The teary accusations. The hostile denials. The heart-splintering admissions. I wouldn’t go there again.
Birdie supported my decision.
“Sleep well, sunshine?”
“Like igneous rock.”
“Bastillo is taking Fisher to visit her priest at ten. She suggested we swing by the house at eleven.” I heard what sounded like a match, then the exhalation of smoke.
“I’ll be at home.”
Claudel phoned as I was blow-drying my hair.
As usual, there was no greeting, no formulaic query about my health or my day.
“Detective Charbonneau suggested I contact you, though I am uncertain why.” From most tongues, the French language glides like silk. From Claudel’s, it thuds like potatoes down a chute. “I have nothing to report.”
“Meaning?”"
"“No smoking gun on Cyr’s list of renters.
“Not a single missing person even came close?”
“One kid in California. Broken right wrist. Tickled the lower end of your height range.”
“How tall?”
“Five-four.”
I felt a buzz of electricity.
“Close enough. When was she reported missing?”
“Eighty-five.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Kid was fourteen.”
The current fizzled.
“The skeleton with the fractured radius had to be closer to twenty.
