Page 94 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

“Sit,” Stephen commanded, and Armand did as he was told. As he’d always done since the age of nine, when Stephen had become his de facto father, after the deaths of both parents.

But before taking his own seat in the rose garden, Armand helped the now frail man into his chair.

“You weren’t supposed to come until the weekend, Armand. And where’s Reine-Marie?”

“At home.” Armand had found another pillow and placed it behind Stephen’s back, gently moving him forward so that it would fit. “Are you warm enough?”

Only when Stephen nodded did he himself sit down.

Stephen waved an attendant over. “What would you like? A hot chocolate?”

“A banana split?” said Armand, with a smile.

How many of those had they shared, as young Armand had settled into, or tried to, the new life. The new reality.

On realizing his mother and father really would never come home, the boy had finally left his post by the window and felt himself detaching from this world. Where such a thing could happen.

He hovered outside his body. Watching himself go through the motions, but without emotion. He felt nothing. Except the desire to disappear. He began to float further and further away.

If Stephen hadn’t been there, hadn’t reached out for the boy, hadn’t assured him that he would be safe. He would be all right. That he could cry and scream and act out, and that Stephen would always love him. Never leave him. If Stephen hadn’t assured him that, yes, terrible things happened, but that goodness existed. If Armand hadn’t trusted that his godfather had been telling the truth, he wasn’t sure what would have become of him.

Stephen always told the truth, though he often didn’t distinguish between truth and an ever-ready opinion.

And now it was Armand’s turn to be there for his godfather. Stephen trusted that, when the time came, Armand would whisper that he was loved. That it was all right to let go. To drift away.

“Nothing, thank you.” Armand waited until the attendant left before he turned back to Stephen. “What can you tell me about Charles and Brian Fillmore?”

Stephen’s eyes lit up. A hugely successful financier, a billionaire before risking and losing it all in a bid to stop corruption, Stephen Horowitz loved nothing more than to talk finances. Investments. Business.

And he loved a good gossip.

“Ahhh, Réunion. You’ve heard the rumors, I’m assuming?”

“I have. Well, I’ve heard some. What’ve you heard?”

“That Brian Fillmore has disappeared. There’s even some talk that he’s dead.”

He studied his godson. Stephen had hoped Armand would take over his business one day, but instead, the boy had entered the Sûreté. And, like himself, had risen to the top of his profession, only to risk and lose it all in a bid to stop corruption.

But Armand had fought back and was once again head of homicide. And was sitting across from him on this pleasant late June afternoon, asking questions. This was Stephen Horowitz’s very favorite thing to do. And his favorite person to do it with.

The elderly financier watched his godson closely. “Not just rumors, Armand? No. Fact? Brian Fillmore really is missing.” He paused. “No. He’s been found. That’s why you’re here. He’s dead. Murdered.”

Armand smiled. “I see I’m superfluous to this conversation. Monologue. Go on. Are you going to tell me who did it?”

“Fuck off.”

Armand’s smile became delighted laughter.

Stephen had lived with them for a while in Three Pines, where he’d struck up a friendship with Ruth. Though it was really the duck he’d bonded with. Armand missed him every day. Missed this.

“Why else would the head of homicide come here, out of the blue, asking about a missing man?”

“Please.” Armand raised his hands toward Stephen. “Continue.”

Stephen settled himself in, pausing to think. The attendant, despite being told they needed nothing, brought them each a tall glass of bright pink lemonade and a plate of the soft ginger cookies both Armand and Stephen loved.

When she left again, Stephen began. “Réunion was a stroke of genius. Still is. It’s one of those ideas that found the perfect time. It wouldn’t have worked thirty years ago. If I’d come up with it, it would have failed.”