A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(33)

“Hurt her in what way?” asked Gamache.

Though they knew, they needed to hear what Vivienne’s father also knew.

Homer’s mouth moved, trying to form the words. But no sound would come out. Finally he just stared at Gamache. Begging him not to make him say it.

Cloutier went to speak, but Lacoste stopped her.

And still they waited.

“He beat her.”

The words came from Vivienne’s father like blood from an open vein. Quiet. Almost belying the cost of it.

He continued to stare at Gamache. Pleading now. Not for understanding, because it seemed Godin himself didn’t understand. How he could have suspected his precious child was being beaten and not stopped it.

He was pleading for help. To say what needed to be said. To admit the inexcusable. The inconceivable.

That he suspected his little girl was being hurt but had failed to stop it. Failed her.

“Do you have children?” he asked Gamache.

“Two. A son and a daughter.”

“I’m guessing she’d be about Vivienne’s age.”

“Oui. Her name’s Annie.”

“You?” Homer asked Lacoste.

“Two as well. Son and daughter.”

Homer nodded.

Lacoste watched this man. Was it possible to really put herself in his place? Inside the nightmare?

“He kept her away from me,” said Homer, speaking now to Lacoste. “The few times I was able to see her in the past year, she was thin. There were bruises.” He held his arms. “I begged her to leave him. To come to me, but she wouldn’t.”

“Why not?” asked Isabelle Lacoste.

“I don’t know.” He looked down at Fred, dropping his hand to stroke the sleeping dog.

“You tried,” said Lysette. “There’s nothing more you could’ve done.”

“Oh, there was something I could’ve done.” He looked at Gamache. “What would you have done? If your Annie…”

“When was the last time you saw Vivienne?” he asked, deflecting the question.

Godin smiled a little. “Not going to answer that, are you? Probably smart. But sometimes ya just gotta be stupid, you know? If I’d killed the shit, she’d be here today instead of you.”

“But you would not be,” said Gamache.

“Do you think I care?” said Godin. “I’d trade my life for hers like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“When, Monsieur Godin?” Gamache repeated.

“I saw her just before Christmas. I went down to drop off presents. I’d even bought one for him. Oh, God.” He stared at Gamache in disbelief. “I was so afraid of losing her I was willing to”—he fought to control himself again—“suck up to him. What was I thinking? Oh, God. She didn’t invite me in. I think he was there. So I just left. That was the last time—”

Lysette Cloutier reached out, and this time Gamache didn’t stop her. She put her hand on Homer’s forearm and left it there.

“But you did hear from her again,” said Gamache.

“Yes. She called on Saturday morning.”

Godin seemed confused now. Could it have been so recently? Just two days ago? Time made no sense anymore. Days, dates, they were meaningless and would be for the rest of his life. There would only be before Vivienne disappeared and after.

A firm line drawn against which all else would be measured. Until the day he died.

“What did she say?”

“She told me she was pregnant and was finally going to leave him. I was so happy I could barely speak. I said I’d come and get her, but she told me not to. She needed to pick the time. When it was safe. When he was gone or passed out. She told me she’d be here sometime that night or maybe Sunday morning. She made me promise not to come. So I just waited.” There was a long, long exhale. “I should’ve gone to get her. Why didn’t I?”

But there was no answer, and Gamache was not going to give this dignified man some drivel.

They sat silently, staring at each other. Vivienne’s father and Annie’s father.

“It’s my fault,” Homer whispered.

“Non, monsieur. This isn’t your doing.”

But Gamache knew that no matter what he said, Godin would spend the rest of his life in an endless loop. Skidding along the same ground. Going back over and over and over the last conversation. And what he did or did not do. What he could have done, what he should have done.

As I would, thought Gamache.

“You said you called all her old friends,” Gamache continued, “but do you know if she had a more recent friend? Someone special?”

If Godin caught his meaning, he chose to ignore it.

“No. No one.”

And Gamache was forced to be more blunt.

“Carl Tracey says she had a—”

“I know what Tracey says,” the man erupted. “He’s trying to make her sound like some sort of … some sort of…” He couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. “Vivienne wasn’t like that. She never would, would she?”

He appealed to Cloutier, who managed not to respond.

Godin looked down at his hands, gripped so tightly on the edge of the table that the entire thing rattled. Like a visitation from the other side.