Armand sat down, his knees touching hers. “Gerald Bull built Project Babylon, and etched onto it not just the Whore of Babylon but lines from a psalm, ‘By the waters of Babylon, we sat down and wept.’”

He looked across their living room to the front door, where the goddamned play lay.

“John Fleming writes a play quoting the same line, or near enough. She Sat Down and Wept.”

“It’s a famous line, Armand.” She tried to sound supportive without sounding patronizing. She could see the intensity in his eyes. “There’ve been lots of literary references to it, even music. Didn’t Don McLean write a song with that lyric?”

Then she saw what he was thinking and felt her concern spike.

“You’re wondering if John Fleming could be Gerald Bull? But surely that couldn’t be hidden.”

He picked up the blacked-out sheets. “You can hide anything, depending on who ‘you’ are.”

Reine-Marie leaned forward and took both his hands in hers. She spoke slowly, quietly. Holding his gaze. “You’ve just been reading the play. It’s brought up all sorts of memories of John Fleming. Do you think it’s possible that your grief for Laurent has somehow gotten all mixed up with the trauma of the Fleming trial? I don’t know what happened there, and maybe one day you’ll tell me, but this isn’t making sense, Armand.” She paused to let her words sink in, penetrate, and perhaps even overpower this delusion. “The two aren’t connected, except by a very common quote from the Bible. Do you see that? Fleming has gotten under your skin, or up your nose,” she smiled, and saw a small upturn at the corners of his mouth, “but however he got there, he’s in your head and you have to get him out. He doesn’t belong there, and he doesn’t belong in the murder of Laurent. It’s just muddying things.”

Armand got up and stood by the fireplace, his back to her, looking at the flames. Then he turned around.

“You’re right, of course. John Fleming is in his early seventies now. Far too young to be Gerald Bull. That was foolish of me. My imagination run wild again.”

He ran his large hands through his hair and smiled an apology.

“Still, I’d like to know more about that play. How it came into the possession of Antoinette’s uncle, for instance.”

“Does it matter? Antoinette said he probably picked it up at a flea market. People collect strange things. Maybe he collected the macabre. Items associated with crimes or criminals.”

“But neither Brian nor Antoinette mentioned a collection,” said Armand. “Why would an engineer who showed no interest at all in the theater buy any script, never mind one by the most brutal killer in the country?”

Reine-Marie stared at him. It was, she had to admit, an interesting question.