I found and used every tea towel in the apartment. Every towel from the bathroom. All of them, soaked through crimson. I wrenched the curtains down from the windows and wrapped the body in them, tied it carefully with the curtain cords. I hid the weapon in the dumbwaiter, in its secret cavity inside the wall, and wound the handle so it traveled up to a space between the floors.
The concierge brought bleach; I used it to clean up after I’d washed the blood away. Breathing through my mouth so as not to smell it. I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth. I couldn’t vomit, I had to stay in control.
The bleach stained the floor, leached the varnish out of the wood. It left a huge mark, even larger than the pooling blood. But it was the best I could do, better than the alternative.
And then—I don’t know how much later—the door opened. It wasn’t even locked, I had forgotten that in the face of the task ahead of me.
They stood there. The two Meunier boys. My stepsons. Nicolas and Antoine. Staring at me in horror. The bleach stain in front of me, blood up to my elbows. Nick’s face drained of all color.
“There’s been a terrible accident,” I said.
“Jesus Christ,” Nicolas said, swallowing hard. “Is this because—”
There was a long pause, while I tried to think of what to say. I would not speak Mimi’s name. I decided that Jacques could take the blame, as a father should. This was, after all, really his mess. I settled on: “Your father found out what Ben had been working on—”
“Oh Jesus.” Nick put his face in his hands. And then he howled, like a small child. A sound of terrible pain. His eyes were wet, his mouth gaping. “This is all my fault. I told Papa. I told him what Mimi had found, what Ben had been writing. I had no idea. If I’d known, oh Jesus—”
For a moment, he seemed to sway where he stood. Then he rushed from the room. I heard him vomiting, in the bathroom.
Antoine stood there, arms folded. He looked equally sickened, but I could see he was determined to tough it out.
“Serves him right, the putain de batard,” he said, finally. “I’d have done it myself.” But he didn’t sound convinced.
A few minutes later, Nick returned, looking pale but determined.
The three of us stood there, staring at one another. Never before had we been anything like a family. Now we were oddly united. No words passed between us, just a silent nod of solidarity. Then we got to work.
Jess
Even in my darkest moments over the last couple of days, even learning what Ben had got himself into, I haven’t allowed myself to imagine it. Not finding my brother like this, how I found Mum.
I sink to my knees.
It doesn’t look like my brother, the body on the mattress. It isn’t just the pale, waxy color of the skin, the sunken eye-sockets. It’s that I’ve never seen him so still. I can’t think of my brother without thinking of his quick grin, his energy.
I take in the dark, rusted crimson color of his T-shirt. I can see that elsewhere the fabric is pale. It’s a stain. It covers his entire front.
He must have been up here all along, all this time, while I’ve been scurrying around following clues, tying myself in knots. Thinking I was helping him somehow. And to think I’d seen that locked attic door on my first morning here.
Crouched here beside him, I rock back and forth as the tears begin to fall.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so bloody sorry.”
I reach down to take a hold of his hand. When was the last time we held hands, my brother and I? That day in the police station, maybe. After Mum. Before we went our separate ways. I squeeze his fingers tight.
Then I almost drop his hand in shock.
I could have sworn I felt his fingers twitch against mine. I know it’s my imagination, of course. But for a moment, I really thought—
I glance up. His eyes are open. They weren’t open before . . . were they?
I get to my feet, stand over him. Heart thundering.
“Ben?”
I’m sure I just saw him blink.
“Ben?”
Another blink. I didn’t imagine it. I can see his eyes attempting to focus on mine. And now he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Then—“Jess.” It’s little more than an exhalation, but I definitely heard him say it. He closes his eyes again, as though he’s very, very tired.
“Ben!” I say. “Come on. Hey. Sit up.” It suddenly seems very important to get him upright. I put my arms under his armpits. He’s almost a dead weight. But somehow I manage to haul him into a sitting position. He half slumps forward and his eyes are cloudy with confusion, but they are open.