Métis Beach. Claudine Bourbonnais

killers begin that way. It’s well documented.”

      Françoise became very nervous; her hands trembling. She took our plates, almost knocking over our glasses, but we held onto them. I had the feeling I was the only one around the table to see that something was wrong with her, her moist forehead, visible sweat under her arms, and no one to help her, nobody to say, Are you okay, Françoise?

      Jean said, “Louis didn’t kill the Egan dog, if that’s what you think.”

      Again a nervous laugh broke in my throat.

      “Don’t laugh,” Paul said, “It’s true.”

      “Sure it is,” I heard myself say in a voice that was quickly losing its confidence. “The cats, the seagulls, Clifford Wiggs’ swans.…”

      “Louis is innocent.”

      Françoise stiffened, inexplicable tears in her eyes, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving a pile of dirty plates on the table. What was happening, good God?

      “I was with Louis, that night.”

      Paul spoke, his face red with the sudden attention.

      “You?”

      “Tell him,” Jean ordered. “Tell him so he stops thinking we’re liars.”

      Were they making fun of me? I was convinced I’d seen Louis’ silhouette under the almost full moon, his black clothes, the way he had of running with his fists clenched, head forward.…

      In a tired voice, Paul began his tale of that evening’s events. The Buick Louis had stolen in Baie-des-Sables, which he drove through the village, bottle of whisky — stolen as well — in hand. Louis was drunk, red, glassy eyes, dumb smile drawn on his face. “Hey, Paul! I’ve got good whisky! Come on, let’s go for a ride!” Paul hadn’t been able to resist the temptation. “I climbed in,” he said. “I shouldn’t have, but I did. I liked to drink in those days. We got on the road to Mont-Joli and went to visit one of his friends. We drank the whole bottle, just the three of us. We were too drunk to get back on the road, and the cops found the car easily. They knocked on the door, nearly knocked it off its hinges, but we escaped through a window, hard to believe, we were so drunk we could barely stand. It was past ten o’clock by then, and it was dark. We roamed around part of the night, avoiding cop cars, and ended up finding a shed in the back of a house, where we slept a little until the next morning. You couldn’t have seen him that night in Métis Beach.”

      “I don’t believe you.”

      “No?” Jean was speaking now, anger in his voice. “When Paul came back home the next day, our father was waiting for him. Believe me, he got it good. We didn’t forget it.”

      “Exactly,” Paul added, with the tone of someone telling a tale of derring-do. “The old man wasn’t big, but he was strong. My eye was like a grapefruit for two weeks. You wouldn’t remember it, you disappeared that day.”

      Jean gave me another of his satisfied smiles. “Exactly. You ran away to the States. Just like a criminal.”

      I chose to ignore that last comment. “So who killed the dog? One of you?”

      Jean laughed unpleasantly. “You really want to know? That’s what you want? Well, sit your ass down because you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”

      They thought it was me. It was my turn to laugh, “Me? I would have killed Locki? Why?”

      “To make sure Louis would be accused of raping Gail.”

      I smirked this time. “You know this whole rape thing, it’s a lie. It’s crazy old Robert Egan’s invention.”

      “That’s not what people here thought.”

      Jean was having fun, that much was clear. He was on his fourth rum and Coke. Jérôme had brought the Bacardi bottle to the table, and Jean was pouring drinks for himself. In an authoritarian voice that clearly annoyed Jérôme, he called out to Françoise in the kitchen. She reappeared, distraught, mascara smudged.

      “Françoise, tell him what you heard the next morning at the Egan place. It’ll help him remember, maybe.”

      Françoise protested, “It’s ancient history. I don’t think it’s worth us talking about it.…”

      “Romain has come all the way from Los Angeles to understand things. He’s an important man over there,” he declared, with undisguised irony. “A man who probably isn’t used to wasting his time. So tell him, tell him what you know.”

      “I … I don’t know, Jean.”

      “Come now, sis! You know the story by heart. How many times did you spin us that yarn, eh?”

      I shuddered. How many times did you spin us that yarn? Like a dirty joke you never get tired of repeating.

      “Go on, now,” Jean insisted, “what are you waiting for?”

      Françoise lifted her eyes to mine. Discouraged, she began speaking, stuttering slightly. I could feel Jean’s eyes on me, penetrating like the blade of a knife, but I ignored him. Françoise looked tired all of a sudden, weariness dragging her face down.