She croaked, “Yes, that’s Edgar.”

It was startling to see him up close. His eyes were glossy, and his hair was wildly out of place. Edgar’s skin sagged in death as if what kept him full and lively fled his body. It was surreal to see his liveliness snuffed out so completely. She’d seen him the day before, rosy-cheeked and happy on his way into town.

“I’d never have thought,” she said quietly, almost under her breath, “that a quick goodbye a day ago would be the last time I would see you alive.” Remi blinked, her eyes prickling with fresh tears as she pushed herself to her feet. Before she could faint, she escaped to one of the armchairs at the center of the room. Bracing herself against the back, she gripped the cushion until her knuckles were white. The horrible ringing in her ears that followed took too long to subside as she tried to calm herself.

“I’m terribly sorry for putting you through that, Madame.”

Remi shook her head weakly. “Please, don’t worry over me. I’m well enough.” She’d said the same thing to Sylvie before, but this time, she could hear the lie.

Inspector Marceau said nothing as he waited, patient to a fault.

“What will happen now?”

“Well, Madame, I had hoped to ask you a few questions.” He sounded sheepish as he spoke; while it was a simple request, it startled her all the same.

“Questions?” She turned to level with his gaze. “Am I under some sort of investigation?”

He coughed. “No, Madame. I cannot imagine you would have anything to do with your husband’s death, and believe me, I have seen many a murder committed by an angry wife.”

Remi did not find the sentiment as comforting as he intended.

“May I?” he asked, producing a small ledger and pen.

“I’m an open book, Monsieur.”

“Very well.” He cleared his throat. “When did you last see your husband, Madame?”

“Yesterday afternoon. He was on his way to town,” she said. “But I have no knowledge of his reason for visiting. We don’t—rather didn’t—keep the other informed of our daily activities. He was quite private.”

The inspector made a note. “And did you see him return? Or did you retire before?”

“I retired well before he made it home. Sylvie usually alerts me.”

But Sylvie had been indisposed with chores the night before, leaving Remi to bathe and dress herself before bed.

“And she didn’t this time?”

“No. She had other duties.”

He nodded his acknowledgment and closed his notebook. As he tucked it away, he asked her one final, yet strange, question. “Did your husband have any enemies? Any sour relations with locals that might stir up trouble?”

The question caught her by surprise. “Not that I am aware of, Monsieur. His family was known for its reclusiveness, but he was nothing but kind to everyone he came in contact with. You can ask the staff.”

Marceau nodded. “I shall, Madame. In the meantime, I thank you. Feel free to call upon me should you have questions or are in need of company. I do enjoy a cup of tea.”

“Of course. My home is always open to you,” she said sincerely.

He summoned a small smile and tipped his head. “Then I shall take my leave.”

“I’ll escort you out.” It was a meager offer, one she didn’t need to make, but the thought of spending one more minute alone in the study with Edgar’s corpse made her stomach turn. In truth, she was terrified to be there. The inspector must have suspected the same and accepted her offer cheerfully.

As they left, she noticed there were two other officers and the doctor waiting outside. She spied a stretcher among them and sucked in a breath. They were going to take him away, and she felt guilty for feeling relief.

Edgar Leone was well and truly dead.

“You may hear from me in the coming days,” Marceau warned, though his voice was kind.

Remi nodded, and they parted. She moved into the open dining room and closed the doors behind her softly. The cool touch of the door against her forehead told her that not every part of her body was numb.

“Now what?” She choked on a sob, silencing herself so that the voices outside would not find her.

“The audacity of that girl.” Remi heard Beline’s raspy, uptight voice in the foyer beyond the door. “Your father is quite upset.”

“Maman, please,” Elise pleaded with her, their voices turning to hushed tones.

Remi closed her eyes. She thought back to a time when she was younger, when there was a boy on a beach, and their chance meeting led to something stranger yet sweet. It was simpler then, easier to pretend that all was well and that her loneliness was just an echo. After all, they were only children when they first met. His countenance would have changed in their time apart, but a small part of her hoped that in writing to him about his father’s passing, there might be comfort. Some reconciliation that might mend the dam breaking in her heart.

But that was just the wishful thinking of a widowed woman.

The truth was that Ben would be angry, and any visit from him would bring more thunder than the island's wild spring.

NIGHTMARES

BEN

A terrible nightmare woke Ben, pushing him from slumber as he careened toward the floor.

He landed with a loud thump, still tangled in sheets from the waist down. Behind him, the two slumbering women on the bed didn’t so much as budge, completely unbothered by his wild awakening. He’d learned early on that they slept like the dead. One tended to learn these things if they stayed overnight. The brothel was always alive, even in the quieter hours of the morning.

Ben stared at the ceiling and sucked in a deep breath.

Normally, it would have comforted him to know he’d woken in a safe place—somewhere warm and familiar—but he felt gutted, the thick scent of perfume suddenly unbearable.

He choked back a gag as he untangled himself from the sheets and searched for his clothes. Neither of the women stirred, which made freeing his trousers from beneath their sleep-heavy bodies difficult. Once dressed, he stumbled groggily into the half-lit hallway, keenly aware that the nightmare followed him, a parasite that attached itself to his wakefulness. The sting of its grip was wretched with the memory of images that tormented him as a boy.

His heart raced like a bird beating against a cage. The fear was still raw inside him despite the passage of time. I can still feel her, he thought miserably. Her eyes still watched him long after waking. Murky and wide, they bore into him, unblinking.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. The nightmares always stole his peace. Ignore it. Just ignore it, and it will go away. Ben stumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

“Watch it, you drunk!” a man cried out in passing.

Ben grunted, stifling the man’s protestations when he stood to his full height. He was taller than the average man, built sturdier than most of the gentlemen of Paris, and he often used it to his advantage. Not that it would matter if he couldn’t find his footing. If the man didn’t back down, Ben would be at a disadvantage. He could hardly breathe how his heart raced, let alone throw a singular punch.

Thankfully, the gentleman reeled backward and mumbled, “Sorry.”

Ben pushed past him and rounded the corner of the hall into the salon. It was hard to see in the smoke and low candlelight. The madam kept the windows covered with thick curtains from dusk until dawn. Whether it was to protect her patrons’ identities or preserve the ambiance, or both, it made it damn difficult for him to make out anything.

“Jacques?” Ben called. “Jacques? Where are you?”