“Oh, yes! Almost all the time. Just . . . all that about Dominic. And Leon.”
“Well,” I said, with a grimace: pained but not upset, everything in perspective. “Yeah. That was nasty stuff. But it was a long time ago. And I guess you guys were right: I did everything I could. I’m not going to beat myself up over it.”
“Good.” A fleeting smile, but there was still a tiny worried crease between her eyebrows. After a moment she said, picking a blob of candle wax off the tablecloth: “You were asking Sean and Dec a lot of questions.”
I was lining up glasses in the dishwasher, fast neat rhythm, even my hand grip felt stronger. “Was I? I guess.”
“Why?”
“I figured they’d remember Dominic a lot better than I do. Apparently I was right, too.”
“Yes, but why does it matter? Why do you want to know about him?”
“I’d like some clue what’s going on,” I said, reasonably enough, I thought. “Seeing as we’ve somehow ended up in the middle of it.”
Melissa’s eyes came up to meet mine, fast. “You think they know something about what happened? Sean and Dec?”
“Well, not like that.” I laughed; she didn’t. “But yeah, they might know something that they don’t realize means anything. Probably not, but hey, it’s worth asking, right?”
“The detectives are doing that.”
“Sure. But they might not tell us what they find out, or they might not find out fast enough. Hugo wants to know; he says he feels like he’s got a right. You can see his point.”
She brushed her handful of crumbs into the bin, not looking at me. “I guess.”
“And there’s stuff I might be able to find out that the detectives can’t.”
A moment’s silence. Then: “So you’re going to keep asking. Trying to find out what happened.”
I shrugged. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
Melissa swept the cloth off the table in one swift neat motion and turned to face me. She said flatly, “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“What?” I hadn’t seen this coming. If anything I would have expected her to be all encouragement and support, anything that Hugo wanted, anything that got me amped up and interested— “Why not?”
“Dominic might have been murdered. It’s not a game. The detectives are professionals; it’s their job. Leave it to them.”
“Baby, it’s not Agatha Christie. I’m not going to get stabbed in the library with a letter opener for getting too close to the truth.”
She didn’t smile. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Then what?”
“You don’t know what you might find out.”
“Well, that’s kind of the point.” And when she still didn’t smile back: “Like what?”
“I don’t know. But how could it be anything that would make you happy? Toby”—her hands tightening on the tablecloth—“you’ve been getting so much better. I know how hard it’s been, but you have, and it’s wonderful. And now this . . . this seems like something that isn’t going to take you good places. Even tonight, that upset you, I could tell . . . The next while isn’t going to be easy, with Hugo”—and over me, as I started to speak—“and that’s all right—no, it’s not all right, but it just happened, we can deal with it. Whatever that takes. But deliberately getting yourself into something that you know is going to hurt you, doing it to yourself—that’s not the same thing, Toby. It’s not all right. I really wish you’d just leave it.”
I looked at her, standing there all fragile and earnest in the middle of my uncle’s rickety kitchen clutching his worn old tablecloth, tiny reflected candle-flames wavering in the dark French doors behind her. All I could see in my mind was me bringing her the answer to all of this, impaled on my spear and carried high, to be laid at her feet in triumph. The image went through my blood like a tracer shot, like another great big beautiful swig of that Armagnac. All these months of her patience, her loyalty, her stunning and full-hearted and completely unwarranted generosity: this was the only way in the world that I could—not repay it, nothing would do that, but justify it.
“Baby,” I said, leaving the rest of the dishes and going to her. “It’s fine. I swear.”
“Please.”
“I’m not going to wreck my head over it. I’m just interested. And I’d love to get Hugo some answers. I know I’ll probably find out bugger-all, but what the hell, you know?”
Melissa looked half convinced, but only half. The radio was playing “Little Green