Spectacle(41)

“It isn’t mine.” She shrugged. “I don’t know whose it is. Someone … put it in my bag, I think.” I hope. Because as disturbing as that is, it’s better than forgetting that I met the killer. “I just discovered it.”

The truth was absurd. She knew how she must have appeared, what she must have sounded like. But she couldn’t lie to a nun.

The nun leaned in close. “Do you need help?” Her eyes searched Nathalie’s neck and arms, presumably for signs of physical harm.

Nathalie shook her head.

“I can bring you to a hospital,” the nun whispered. “I’ll stay with you until your family comes. Do you have family?”

Her tone was compassionate, her expression caring. Yet also careful, the way Maman spoke to Aunt Brigitte when she wasn’t making sense.

“I do have family, thank you. I’m on my way home right now. I—I don’t need to go to a hospital,” Nathalie said, glancing at the blood jar.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The nun, gazing at her with a mixture of sympathy and pity, patted Nathalie’s elbow. She closed her eyes slowly and then opened them again. “Very well.” With a bow, she walked away.

“Pray for me, Sister,” Nathalie called after her.

The nun turned and smiled faintly. “I already am.”



* * *



Nathalie dangled her feet over the Seine. Sitting on the cement was uncomfortable, and she was still too anxious to stay put for very long, but she needed to think.

She hated her life. She wished that rather than touching the morgue glass that first time, she’d smashed it instead. If she could go back in time, that’s exactly what she’d do.

The visions had ruined everything normal and good. Her sense of reality, and her imagination, blended together in the worst possible way. Her relationship with Maman. Her friendship with Simone. Her honesty in writing to Agnès. Her ability to sleep. To eat. To remember.

And the Dark Artist, what did he care? He had no way of knowing about her ability. Who did he think he was tormenting? The girl at the morgue or the anonymous journalist responsible for the morgue report? He couldn’t know she was both.

Could he?

He could have been following her every move since that first vision. Or he could be playing a game like he did with the police and Le Petit Journal, sending in his stupid letters. He might know everything about her. Or nothing. Between falling asleep and her unreliable memory, she couldn’t trust herself.

Now what?

Inspiration. Obviously she didn’t understand what that meant. That was the point, no doubt. To confuse her and make her wonder what some deranged murderer intended with his ambiguous messages. But she wasn’t going to do that anymore.

Why me? For all of this, why me?

The blood served no purpose other than to taunt her. If she brought it to the police, they wouldn’t believe her, whether she claimed it was a stealthy deposit or an encounter about which she had no memory. Even if the police did, somehow, take her seriously, there wouldn’t be anything they could do about it. They couldn’t tell if it was the blood of a Dark Artist victim or a rat from the sewers.

Nathalie emptied the blood into the river and let go of the bottle. Then she threw in the lid, followed by the crumpled leaves holding the bloodstained paper. She watched the blood dissipate and the jar fill with water until the river swallowed it completely. The leaves and paper floated away a meter or so before starting to sink. She put her hands in the river, letting the current flow through her fingers. Then she stood up, wiped her hands on her dress, and walked home as quickly as her legs would take her.





18


The only solace Nathalie had for the rest of the day, aside from the comfort of Stanley at her feet, was a letter from Agnès.

Dear Nata,

Oh my. I have read those newspaper clippings again and again. Please send more. I want to know everything about the Dark Artist and these murders. What a tremendously exciting time to be in Paris. I dare say that my curiosity would outweigh my squeamishness and that I might be observing at the morgue right alongside you.

Do you have any guesses? Are you hearing anything at the newspaper that hasn’t been published? How do you think he gathers his victims? You must be terrified to be alone on the streets. Be careful, my friend.

We went to an apple orchard the other day. Although the apples are not yet in season, walking along the rows and rows of stout trees was a delight. They are all lined up like sturdy dominoes. Lush and fragrant. However, bees are quite fond of them and Roger got stung. It probably makes me an awful sister, but I told him to stop crying and that he deserved it anyway. Just a few minutes before, Maman had told him to stop running about so wildly. Of course he didn’t listen, knocked over my nearly full basket, and didn’t help pick up the apples. I threw one after him and missed. I am glad the bee had better aim.

I thought of how to explain the smell of the ocean to you and still am not sure I have an adequate description. Salt and water, as you say, and life. Also death and rot—as with seaweed—but even then, it’s a welcome smell. If movement and strength and beauty have a scent, it is the ocean. I suppose that’s not entirely helpful, is it? You shall see for yourself next year, I hope. Adorned with your Viking hat perhaps.

Bisous,