Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

“In case you didn’t catch on, I love you, too,” he said.

She nodded. “I just wanted to make sure. After all, we promised Nicole a Burger King on every corner. Go to sleep. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he said softly, shutting his eyes again.

“Tomorrow,” she said, leaning over and brushing her lips against his.

It was early afternoon when Malgreave let himself in his front door. He hadn’t wanted to go home, but he was never a man to shirk his duty. He couldn’t run away from the empty house—he would have to deal with it, learn to live without Marie, sooner or later, and the longer he put it off the worse it would be.

For some reason the house didn’t feel as desolate when he walked in the door. He looked over at the walnut coffee table. His half-drunk glass of whiskey was gone, the overflowing ashtray had disappeared.

He wrinkled his forehead. Maybe he’d dumped them in the kitchen last night, but he didn’t remember doing so. He headed toward the kitchen, moving to the sink to pour himself a glass of water, when he heard her. Marie’s voice. “Louis, are you home?” she called from upstairs.

He looked at the sink. There on the shelf, tucked neatly beside his blood pressure medicine and the ancient aspirin, were vitamins and minerals and fish oil and rose hips. And closing his eyes for a moment, his whole body trembled in joy and relief.

It was raining in London. They’d had an unusual streak of sunny weather that spring, but now it was raining again, coming down in buckets.

Jean-Pierre Simon sat at his desk at the Bank of France, staring out into the pouring rain. He’d lived in London for fifteen years; there were times when he felt more English than French. But not when it rained.

When it rained he remembered a dark day twenty-five years ago, the smell of fire and roses and burnt flesh. And he felt urges so dark and evil he wanted to wipe them from his brain. But each year they grew stronger, more unmanageable.

“Nasty day, isn’t it, Mr. Simon?” Mrs. Grandy said cheerfully, her wrinkled old face creased in a smile. She was well past retirement age, but she enjoyed her work as a teller in the bank, and his boss kept her on. She always made him nervous, as all old women did, and he tried not to remember why.

But this time Jean-Pierre didn’t snub her, and his long fingers toyed with the silver letter opener on his spotless desk. “Nasty indeed, Mrs. Grandy.” And he watched her walk away with a dreamy smile on his face. The time had come.