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.
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