Spectacle(51)

Did he mess it up in the rush to see me?

As soon as she thought it, she blushed. How ludicrous.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

Which, of course, only made her blush more.

“I’m fine,” she said, willing her cheeks to resume their normal hue. “And thank you for your concern. I appreciate it. I don’t know what happened in there. The heat, I guess. Or maybe because I didn’t have much breakfast. Oh, and I had a headache last night. It’s happened before. Only twice. Once in the library studying for exams. It was about three o’clock and all I’d eaten all day was a pain au chocolat, which is what I would have gotten today, now, I mean, if I’d had breakfast this morning. It’s my favorite pastry. The second time was last summer in a park when it was very hot and I stood up quickly after reading Les Misérables for several hours.”

Why am I rambling? I am not one to ramble. I’m speaking as quickly as Monsieur Patenaude. My hands are quivering. Hands, please stop. Please.

And now my thoughts are rambling.

The left corner of Christophe’s mouth curled into a half smile.

Breathe.

Nathalie straightened up with a grin. “Talking, yes. As you can see, I’ve already begun.”

The coffee and the food arrived. She gestured for him to help himself, and when he declined, she couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“So,” he said, tapping the side of his coffee cup, “you’re at the morgue every day, or at least, every day I’m there. Why?”

Nathalie cut herself a piece of bread. She stared at him a moment as she took a bite, wondering whether or not he already knew the answer to this question. “You alluded to this once before, too. The day we crossed paths outside the bureau de poste.”

He smiled quick as a wink. “You might say I’m persistently curious.”

“I think the same could be said about me,” she said, chuckling. She picked up a few crumbs with her fingertip. “I … I write the morgue report for Le Petit Journal.”

Christophe sat back and folded his arms. For a moment his expression froze in thought, unreadable, before easing into one of bewilderment.

“You are welcome to go ask Monsieur Patenaude—he’s the editor and a friend of my father’s—yourself,” Nathalie said, sitting up especially straight. “Or I can give you a phrase or two that I’ll include in my article, and you’ll be able to read it in tomorrow’s paper.”

“You—you aren’t joking,” said Christophe, uncrossing his arms.

“Not at all.” Nathalie picked at some cheese as she told him how she got the job and how long she’d been there. “Speaking of that time outside the bureau de poste. You also asked me about my clothes, remember?”

He nodded.

“I wear trousers when I go to Le Petit Journal,” she said with a shrug. “Monsieur Patenaude thought it best that I dress as a boy so I don’t stand out.”

“That’s why?” Christophe threw back his head and laughed. “Good ol’ Patenaude. I know the man well, actually. That sounds like him.”

Nathalie frowned. “Why is that funny?”

“I’m not laughing at you or him. Or your trousers. I’m laughing at myself,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I must admit, I was terribly embarrassed that day outside by the post, and I didn’t know what to think … with the trousers and whatnot. I—I have never seen a young woman wearing anything other than a skirt or dress.”

She snickered. He had acted strangely during that encounter.

After a few beats of silence, he sipped some coffee and cleared his throat. “I saw you didn’t touch the viewing pane at the morgue today.”

The statement fell on her like one large, all-encompassing raindrop that doused her in confusion.

“Pardonnez-moi?” It made her uncomfortable that he knew. Knew what? More than he should have, if nothing else. They’d just shared a lighthearted exchange, and now this. The legs on her chair could well have been kicked out.

He rested his hands under his chin. “It means I think something happens when you place your hand on the viewing pane.”

Nathalie, briefly wondering if she’d imagined what he just said, replied by taking a sip of coffee. Those few seconds felt like fifteen minutes. “That’s quite a claim, Monsieur Gagn—Christophe.”

The next thought she had pinched her heart. This friendly, easygoing demeanor might just be a way to persuade her to give up information. Maybe he thought she’d be more cooperative if he came across as more relaxed; maybe this “talk” was all business, no pleasure. She clenched her jaw and pulled her plate closer, annoyed with herself for liking him so much.

He peeked over his shoulder before answering. “I’ve seen you. Not just the first time; every time there’s a Dark Artist victim. A couple who stood next to you in the viewing room reported it once, too. They heard you say the name ‘Mirabelle.’”

Hmmm. So it hadn’t been Simone who supplied the tip about Mirabelle. Instead it was some people she hadn’t even noticed watching her. Her stomach lurched as she recalled that older couple with the dog from the previous vision and how they’d moved away from her. Did everyone do that?

She traced a question mark on the table with her finger. “This is the part where I don’t know what to say next.”