Part 6
“I need to see his back.”
“You can look without moving him.”
“Not properly.”
“There is no need for properly. Look at what is visible and go.”
Claire eased Louis flat again. The infant settled without waking.
“What exactly are you afraid I’ll see?” she asked.
Étienne’s hand lowered.
“Nothing.”
“That word has done a lot of work tonight.”
He stepped away from the bassinet and went to the window. Outside was darkness, the glass reflecting the nursery instead of the grounds. His reflection stood beside Claire’s, elongated by the old pane.
“You believe you understand this house because a door was locked and a servant looked nervous,” he said.
“I don’t understand this house.”
“Yet you’ve decided I’m hiding something.”
“You are hiding several things. I haven’t decided whether any harmed Louis.”
His shoulders became still.
The distinction mattered. Claire wanted him to hear it.
“I am not accusing you,” she said. “I am asking you to stop preventing an examination.”
He turned. “You think accusation only counts after it becomes explicit.”
“I think your son matters more than your discomfort.”
“You think my discomfort is vanity.”
“I think I don’t know enough to name it.”
That landed harder than anger would have.
Étienne looked down at his tattooed hand. He rubbed his thumb across one knuckle as if checking the ink.
“My wife left three weeks ago,” he said.
Claire did not respond immediately. The confession seemed less like trust than a move he had finally decided to make.
“She did not abandon Louis,” he continued. “She is receiving treatment.”
“For what?”
“That is private.”
“Does it affect the baby’s care?”
“No.”
“Did she care for him before she left?”
“Yes.”
“Was the nanny hired before or after?”
“Before.”
“Did your wife object to the nanny?”
“She objected to everyone.”
The bitterness came quickly, then embarrassed him. He looked toward the door.
“What is her name?” Claire asked.
“Isabelle.”
“Can Isabelle be contacted about Louis?”
“No.”
“Because of treatment?”
“Because contact destabilizes her.”
“According to whom?”
“Her physicians.”
Claire did not challenge that. She had no basis to.
Étienne moved from the window to the upholstered chair but did not sit. He touched the backrest with one hand.
“My mother blames me for Isabelle’s condition,” he said. “Sophie encouraged that. Every ordinary decision became evidence. The nursery temperature. Feeding times. Visitors. Whether a curtain was open. My mother began calling people without telling me.”
“Including the clinic.”
“Yes.”
“Why did Sophie say the house was unsafe?”
“She wanted money.”
“For what?”
“To leave quietly.”
“That sounds like money to keep quiet, not money to leave.”
“She threatened to damage the family.”
“How?”
“By saying things.”
“What things?”
His eyes hardened again. “You enjoy precision until it inconveniences you. Now you’re comfortable with vague suspicion.”
“I’m repeating your description.”
“She said Louis had been exposed to something.”
Claire kept her expression still.
“What?”
“She never said.”
“Did she show you the marks?”
“No.”
“Did she see them?”
“She claimed she did.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Before she was dismissed.”
“Yes.”
“Did your mother also see them?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
“I don’t know.”
Claire looked at the ivory blanket.
The quiet infant beneath it had become the fixed center around which every adult account rotated without touching.
“What did you do after Sophie told you?” she asked.
“I asked our physician.”
“You said Louis was examined.”
“I sent a photograph.”
“Of the rash?”
“Yes.”
“Who took it?”
“Sophie.”
“Where is it?”
“Deleted.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not keep photographs of my son’s body on my phone.”
“Did the physician reply in writing?”
“He called.”
“Name?”
“Dr. Béraud.”
Claire recognized the name. A private physician in Lyon, known more for treating executives than infants. She had never worked with him.
“What did he say?”
“That it was likely irritation caused by heat or fabric.”
“Likely?”
“Yes.”
“Did he recommend an in-person examination?”
“He said to observe.”
“Then why did you allow this visit?”
“My mother was becoming impossible.”
“And now?”
“Now I regret it.”
Claire reached for her phone. One bar had returned.
“I’m calling Dr. Renard.”
Étienne crossed the room before she could unlock the screen.
He stopped close, not touching her.
“No calls from the nursery.”
“Then I’ll step into the corridor.”
“The signal will vanish.”
“I’ll go downstairs.”
“No.”
Claire looked up at him. “You need to stop saying that as though it ends decisions.”
“It often does.”
“Not here.”
“This is my home.”
“This is a medical visit involving a ten-week-old infant whose caregiver reported possible exposure and whose father is refusing examination.”
His face changed at the word exposure.
Claire saw it.
Not shock. Recognition.
“What did Sophie think he was exposed to?” she asked again.
“I told you she didn’t say.”
“You reacted as though you know.”
“I reacted because you turned an allegation into a fact.”
“I said possible.”
“You said it to make it sound official.”
“I said it because that is what you described.”
Their voices remained low. That made the conflict more unsettling, not less. Louis slept through it, his breathing soft under the blanket.
Claire slipped her phone back into her pocket. Calling in front of Étienne would invite a physical contest over the device, and she would not create one beside the bassinet. She needed the room calmer, the baby examined, and the door accessible.
She looked toward the cabinet.
The silver edge was visible again.
Étienne followed her gaze.
“Show me the container,” she said.
“No.”
“Then move away from it.”
He did neither.
Claire took one slow breath.
May you like
A small, embarrassing memory came to her: age sixteen, standing in her parents’ kitchen while her father insisted a burnt smell came from outside. It had taken Claire ten minutes to discover a dish towel smoldering beside the stove. Her father had denied the smoke because admitting it meant admitting he had forgotten the burner. People sometimes defended the story that preserved them even while the room filled with evidence.
She had not respected him less afterward because of the mistake.
