Spectacle(26)

“How about,” Simone said with a chuckle, “you will remain anonymous, you could help them more than you know, and if you were one of those unfortunate girls being gawked at in the morgue, wouldn’t you want your killer brought to justice?”

“Wouldn’t anyone? It’s not that. It’s…” She finished the sentence with a sigh. She knew those were sound reasons, and she’d already thought of every one of them. Amidst all the excitement of having this power, the fear of uncertainty began to slither around her mind. What responsibility would this bring? What if her involvement complicated the investigation … or somehow made her a target for the killer?

She didn’t confess these worries to Simone because she didn’t want to appear selfish.

Besides, if nothing else, this ability meant she had to think beyond herself. Didn’t it?

Simone crossed her ankles. “It’s what?”

“It’s daunting.”

“Start simple, then,” said Simone. She sifted through a box on the table and pulled out an envelope. “One sentence will do, won’t it? ‘The second victim ran from her killer in a hall with a navy blue rug with golden stripes on the edge.’”

“It’s just so … factual. It almost sounds silly,” Nathalie said, exhaling her weariness. “That’s all there is, though, and I don’t want to be dramatic.”

They sat for a moment, thinking.

“I know!” Simone said, snapping her fingers. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this before. Tell them how he killed her! In precise detail. They can tell from the autopsy, but no one else would know that. Except you.”

“Except me,” Nathalie said. “Or someone at the morgue, sending it in as a prank.”

“Don’t concern yourself with any of that. They’ll wonder how anyone but the killer could know that. Or they might assume it’s just a good guess. You have nothing to lose, because they might just throw it out. However, you could gain some credibility.”

“I’ll get their attention if nothing else.”

“And,” Simone said, folding her arms, “you remain anonymous.”

Nathalie nodded and picked up the pencil. They spent a few minutes discussing how to word the letter, agreeing that direct and simple would be best. Nathalie closed her eyes and thought through the vision. It took a few minutes to write; she tried not to dwell on the incongruity of capturing a passionate act using aloof language.

The second victim was killed in a hall that had a dark blue rug down the center; the rug had golden stripes along the side. The killer made three cuts along one continuous path: from the left corner of the mouth to the top of the jaw, the bottom of the jaw to the top of the throat, then from throat to collarbone. The deepest slashes were in the neck. The knife was approximately fifteen centimeters in length.



Neat block letters. Unadorned prose. Gruesome honesty. Nathalie didn’t want to read it a second time.

Wax sealer in hand, Simone turned the paper toward herself and read. “Perfect. Shall I?”

Nathalie chewed the inside of her cheek. If she thought about this too much, she might change her mind. Again. “Yes.”

Simone folded the paper, placed it in an envelope, and put a wax seal on it. She handed it to Nathalie to address. “Here you go, Mademoiselle.”

Nathalie indulged in another handful of grapes before getting up to go, even though she wasn’t hungry in the slightest. Simone gave her a longer than usual hug and said, in a whisper resonant with both comfort and affection, “You have a gift. This is the right thing to do.”

The dead girl’s murder, slice after slice after slice, flickered through Nathalie’s mind as she nodded in agreement.



* * *



Relief passed over Nathalie, more like a breeze than a gust, when she mailed the letter. She was glad that it was gone, that someone else would now decide what to do with that information. And there was something satisfying about revealing part of her secret yet feeling protected.

As she exited the bureau de poste, she was fiddling with the button on her trousers and collided with a man heading inside.

Well. Of all people.

Nathalie couldn’t say who was more surprised.





12


“Monsieur Gagnon,” said Nathalie, taking a step back. “Imagine that our paths should cross here, too. Paris feels small lately, doesn’t it?”

“Mademoiselle Baudin, is that you?” His ears turned as red as apples. “Small indeed.”

Nathalie gave a brittle laugh. “Another delightful summer day perfect for strolling.”

M. Gagnon tucked the letter he was carrying into his coat pocket, then eyed her from her shoes to her cap. “Your clothes,” he said, using that official voice he’d used during their first encounter.

Nathalie straightened up. “What about them?”

“How come you have on, uh … why are you dressed like a young man?”

“Dresses aren’t always convenient,” she said, in a tone suggesting he should know that.

He turned his head askew without breaking eye contact. “That’s why you’re not wearing one? Convenience?”

“Yes. No,” she said, her cheeks warming. She didn’t want to talk about this, and frankly, it was none of his concern. “What brings you here?”