Unveiling the Past by R.W. Wallace

Author:R.W. Wallace [Wallace, R.W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Varden Publishing
Published: 2022-12-24T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Six

I’m watching so closely, I’d notice one of Pradel’s nose hairs move. As it is, I don’t need to go into that level of detail.

When Evian drops her little bomb, Pradel’s nostrils flare, he draws in a sharp breath but tries to hide it, and that muscle in his jaw pops again.

I guess it’s possible he’s only now remembering that nobody knew where his sister-in-law’s body disappeared to and is shocked to learn that the grave was discovered…but I don’t buy it. This is the reaction of a man realizing his mistake.

He either knew Clothilde’s grave has been “found” for the exhumation—or he knew where it was all along.

Pradel rallies quickly. “You will pardon my assumption that you knew how to do your job, Madame. If you tell me the body has been exhumed, I will—I daresay not surprisingly—assume you knew where the body was. As I was clearly the only one in the room not to know this fact, I planned to ask my wife about it after your departure.”

I’ll buy him not wanting to look stupid in front of strangers. However, I don’t buy him asking his wife about it. I don’t think he shows her any weakness, either.

Evian, bless her, doesn’t rise to the bait. I think Pradel could accuse her of being incompetent until he was blue in the face, and she wouldn’t care. She just sits there, staring at Pradel, her face completely blank.

I wish I’d been that mature when I had her job.

The silence stretches and I can hear a fly buzzing at one of the large windows behind me.

Evian and Pradel have their staring match, Doubira is alertly observing but wisely stays quiet, Clothilde and I stay back to let this play out, and Joséphine…I’m starting to see the family resemblance.

I daresay that if Joséphine had been a ghost, her hair would have been floating around her head right about now.

Although there’s no doubt about it still being the same woman—it’s not like anybody could have body-swapped her—the meek and proper woman who ran to her husband for support five minutes ago is long gone.

In her place, there’s a sixty-year-old Clothilde, who happens to wear tan trousers and a pastel blouse instead of jeans and worn Converse. Her eyes are angry, piercing. Alive. Her hair is somehow less subdued, more wild. And her mild and neutral expression has given way to an angry Amazon out for revenge.

“You knew?” She’s clearly holding back, forcing her tone and volume to something close to a normal level.

“No need to get hysterical, chérie,” Pradel says.

Oh boy. Not the right way to go.

And this is why Joséphine held herself back in the first place. Always know your audience. “This isn’t hysterical, Edouard,” she says. She actually becomes calmer for every word coming out of her mouth. “You saw hysterical when I couldn’t properly mourn the loss of my little sister because we didn’t know where her body was. We thought someone stole it, so hysteria is quite the natural reaction.

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