“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? You don’t believe that myth, do you?”

“I believe in the power of the imagery. In the symbolism.” He stared at her. “You know about the etching, don’t you? About the Whore of Babylon on the gun. That’s why you specifically quoted those lines about the beast slouching toward Bethlehem, waiting to be born. They’re a reference to the Whore of Babylon.”

Her thin hand fell to her lap, still clasping the bread.

Her face was pale, her eyes stared ahead. Sharp. Searching. Her head cocked slightly to the side. Listening, Armand thought, for the voice of the falconer. Telling her what to do.

*   *   *

“Can we speak to you?” Isabelle Lacoste asked.

Jean-Guy was behind her and Clara stood behind him. Clara had gone to the Incident Room and told them everything, at Myrna’s urging. Myrna had returned to her bookstore, but the others now stood on the porch, waiting for an answer.

“Please, Madame Lepage.”

Evie Lepage stepped back and let them into her home, surprised to see Clara with the Sûreté officers.

“I don’t mean to be rude—” Evie began.

But Clara knew that’s exactly what Evelyn meant to be. If she had a hatchet and some privacy, she’d have used that instead of words.

“—but I’m a little busy. Perhaps you can come back later.”

“You drew the Whore of Babylon on the missile launcher,” said Clara. She brought out her device and showed the picture to Evie. “This is your work.”

“What?”

“I know,” said Clara. “They know. I’m sorry but I’ve told them. Don’t make this worse.”

“The Whore of Babylon?” Evie leaned closer to the image glowing on Clara’s device. “That was on the goddamned gun in the woods? The one Laurent found? Where he was found? Where he wa…” She stumbled to silence, wide-eyed. Wild-eyed.

Clara lowered her arm and turned off the device.

“Yes,” said Isabelle Lacoste.

Clara studied Laurent’s mother. She knew faces. Knew moods. Tried to capture both in her paintings. Her works appeared to be portraits but were actually of the layers of skin underneath, each stretching over a different, deeper, emotion.

If she were to paint Evie Lepage at this moment she’d try to get the emptiness, the bewilderment. The despair. And just there, barely visible in the depths—was that dread Clara saw? Was the mask stretched too tight, was the emotion too strong? Was it breaking through?

And if Clara was to do a self-portrait? There would be anger and disgust and, beneath that, compassion. And beneath that? In the darkness?

Doubt.

“I saw the drawings in Laurent’s room, of the lambs,” said Clara. “The ones you did for him every birthday. The same hand did both. It’s unmistakable.”