“Psst.”

She spun on her heel, jolted by the interruption. A young man with brown curls and hazel eyes peered around the corner from the alley of Manette’s home. He beckoned her closer, wary eyes trained on everything. He shifted slightly, making room for Remi in the small space.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t trust the lawyer,” he said. “It’s true; Leith was murdered.”

Remi’s heart skipped. “What? How do you know that?”

“I was there,” the young man said. His eyes were red and puffy, a telltale sign that he had been crying. “He was with me, but I’d hidden myself away before we were caught. Leith wasn’t fast enough.”

“Didier?” She recognized him from Leith’s description. “How—do you know who it was?”

He shook his head, shaking his curls. “No. It was too dark, but we heard voices and men approaching. He told me to hide, to run if things went badly.”

Remi covered her mouth. She pressed her back to the wall and held herself up as best she could, even though her knees felt weak and she wanted to fall.

“I saw it,” he said again. “I saw it happen.”

Who would murder Leith? And for what? Remi wondered.

“I have to go now before someone sees me.”

Remi only heard him, unwilling to stop Didier from running off. Her arms felt numb, grief weighing heavily on her chest. Too many things were taking up space inside her mind, and Lamotte’s words followed by Didier’s admission of the truth he’d witnessed had tipped her over the edge. She lost herself in the alley, crumbling while the fragile pieces of her sanity spiraled downward.

SEVERED

BEN

After Remi left for her drive around town with Elise, Ben spent most of his morning in the wine cellar. He grappled with his distress, bouncing back and forth between cutting his father open and taking him back in broad daylight. Jacques would wring his neck if he chose the latter.

The late night in the cemetery had done both of them in.

“We have to get on with it.” Jacques’s voice cut in from the stairs. He’d left to take stock of the staff and keep an eye out for Remi.

“I know,” Ben clipped, his jaw ticking with irritation.

“Need I also remind you that we’re working on borrowed time.” To emphasize his point, he looked back up the cellar stairs. “Madame won’t be gone for much longer.”

Ben forced himself to his feet. Jacques was right. Remi would be back soon, and he didn’t want to think about her finding him bent over her husband’s dead body. With a careful hand, Ben undid the tie and the buttons of his father’s shirt. He stripped away the collar and pulled the fabric apart to expose his throat and chest.

“Fils de pute!” Ben’s hands flew to the sides of the table, gripping them with all of his strength.

Jacques hurried to his side, noiseless as he observed.

Deep bruises stretched the length of Edgar’s torso, with pockets of stitched flesh sewn haphazardly together. There were fingerprint-sized marks at the base of his throat, similar to the ones he’d seen on Remi. Ben’s eyes burned with fury at the sight.

“By God,” Jacques said. “You were right.”

“I didn’t want to be right.” Ben choked on his words.

“But you are. You might even be right about all of it. Your sister included.”

“I wanted to be wrong!” Ben snapped, pushing away from the table.

Jacques took Ben’s place to get a closer look. He scrutinized the wounds, his face turning up as he moved part of the shirt further back. There were several visible lines from chest to waistline that they could see.

“These are stab wounds,” he said.

Ben scrubbed at his face and sucked in a deep breath. Fighting his anger, he joined Jacques. His friend was right. His father had been injured multiple times. Whoever attacked him intended to kill.

“Your father is as big as you,” Jacques said quietly. “He would have put up a fight.”

Ben turned to his father’s hands, lifting one from the table to inspect it. The knuckles weren’t bruised, and his nail beds were clean. His father might have been as tall as him, but he was no fighter. He may have struggled, perhaps, but his attacker must have caught him off guard.

“Do you think the stitches were to save him?” Jacques asked.

With a breath, Ben covered his father with the sheet again and backed away. The collar of his shirt was high enough to cover the marks on his neck, no doubt chosen to ensure no one would see the damage. “No, not to save him,” Ben said. “To hide their handiwork.”

“Where did they find his body?” Jacques asked.

“Remi said that they discovered him in the study.” Ben flexed his fingers.

“Wouldn’t there have been blood?”

Ben felt cold all over again. Not once during his time in the study did he see anything hinting at a struggle.

“Someone was clearly very thorough,” Ben said.

Quiet settled over them, leaving only the sound of their breathing to occupy the space. Ben wanted to cry, to fill the hurt in his chest with something tangible and raw. He scraped his knuckles against his legs, digging into the fabric of his trousers until the pain filtered through his mind. He couldn’t believe what he’d seen, that his father had been handled with such carelessness.

“You mentioned the doctor at the docks. Do you think he’s involved?” Jacques asked.

“It’s likely that he is.” Ben could still smell the stale alcohol on the doctor’s breath. “But he was a lousy drunk. Anything he has to say isn’t worth listening to.”

“It’s important we keep this quiet.”

“For now,” Ben agreed. “Until I’ve ruled out Lamotte, Marchand, and Remi’s uncle.”

“Maybe they knew the sale was falsified. That would be reason enough.”

“It would be.”

“But we need proof?”

Ben nodded. “We need the papers that Lamotte has in his desk.”

“What are you thinking?” Jacques asked.