“He told me Nicole was his daughter, but she wasn’t. She’s only his stepdaughter, and they hate each other. I never could understand how someone could hate their own child, but that explains it. He told me Nicole’s grandmother couldn’t speak English, and she probably speaks it better than I do.”
“Still relatively harmless,” Tom said. “How did you find out these were lies?”
“I went with Nicole to see her grandmother anyway. I thought she could translate for us, but there was no need.”
“Let me guess. The grandmother hates Marc. And she told you all these things about him. Have you ever stopped to think she might possibly be biased?”
She did turn to look at him then. “Harriette Langlois told me a great many things, most of which I took with a grain of salt. She thinks Marc murdered her daughter. I know that’s impossible. Marc simply isn’t the type to kill. He can charm, manipulate, twist things around to suit him, but he hasn’t got the brutality to kill. He hasn’t got the honesty.”
Tom shifted on the sagging bed, moving marginally closer. “That’s a strange way to put it.”
“It is, isn’t it? But I think killing requires a certain amount of honesty. You have to admit you hate, you have to confront the evil that lives inside you in order to kill another human being. I don’t think Marc has done that.”
“So what are you worried about?” Tom prodded gently.
“You heard Solange yesterday in the café. Marc told me he was going on tour. Solange said he couldn’t be. She would have no reason to lie.”
“And Marc would?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to trust me. He’s always watching me, waiting for God knows what.” She shivered in the chilly air. Her silk dress was still damp, clinging to her, and Tom’s garret had little if any heat.
“Is that it?”
She hesitated. She could stop then—the list of lies was long enough. The room was filled with shadows; there was something comfortingly anonymous about sitting on the bed, talking. If she just kept watching the raindrops run relay races with each other down the sloping skylight she could say anything.
“He lied about the police. He said they were looking for me.”
“Were they?”
“No,” said Claire flatly.
Silence. “Did they have any reason to?”
Claire pulled her knees up, dropping her chin onto them. “Yes,” she said finally. “They did.”
“And Marc knew that.”
“Somehow,” she said, talking to her knees. “I never told him.”
“So why don’t you tell me?” he coaxed gently. “How bad can it be? What did you do, rob a bank?”
She shifted on the bed, turning to look at him in the murky light. “No,” she said, steeling herself to say the words she’d never spoken to a living soul. “I was involved in a hit-and-run accident.” It sounded terribly mundane when she finally said it. Almost prosaic.
“And?” Tom prompted.
“A nine-year-old girl was the victim. She was in a coma for weeks.”
“Did she recover?”
“Yes.”
“Were you the driver?”
“No.”
“Did you try to force the driver to stop, to help her?”
“Of course,” Claire said, outraged.