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He strode away, boots thumping against the thick, colorful rugs. Alone again in the storefront, I pushed the blanket from my legs and left it behind on the chair. The moment I stepped away from the fireplace, glass crunched underfoot. More glass lay scattered on the fireside rug. And there, stuck in the fireplace grate, were the scorched remains of a photograph. The frame had burned away, as had most of the image, but the person it depicted was clear. Jacapo, Devere’s father.
Why would he burn a picture of his father?
I took one last look at the photo, then went in search of Devere’s apartment.
Like the man, his apartment was sparse, succinct, and full of shades of gray. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen Devere wear bright clothing. Dark purple was perhaps the brightest color I’d seen him in, and that had been the purple of thunderclouds.
I hurried to the washroom, where my reflection confirmed Devere’s assessment. I was a mess. With a damp cloth, I scrubbed Rochefort’s blood from my face, then set about righting my hair and clothes. Devere must have thought I’d been attacked by a bear. I’d have to come up with an explanation, should he ask. I’d wandered into the woods, gotten lost, and fallen. He didn’t seem the sort to pry. His only interest was in getting me out of his store and his life.
Perhaps itwastime to leave?
I wasn’t getting paid, and I certainly had no wish to stay in Minerva any longer than necessary. But if I left, the town would seek justice, and all signs pointed toward Devere as his father’s killer, as far as the locals were concerned. I remained unconvinced, despite the burned photo in the grate.
Families were complicated. I’d wished mine dead but certainly hadn’t killed them. Wishing someone dead and killing them were two entirely different things.
I couldn’t leave. If I left, Devere would hang for a crime he hadn’t committed. Injustice followed him like a shadow. It had been the same in the past as it was today. I had to put it right. I’d stay and see the investigation through. Whatever happened in Massalia on my return was fate’s path for me.
“Why did you return?” Devere asked.
I jumped, startled. He leaned against the washroom doorjamb, appearing there while I’d been staring at myself like a fool.
I cleared my throat, wet my hands, and smoothed my hair. “The pay is generous.”
In the mirror, Devere’s reflection rolled his eyes. “Generousis not a word I’d associate with Rochefort.”
I broke our gaze and washed my hands in the basin. I couldn’t look him in the eye and talk about Rochefort, not yet.
“The boy I knew would never have returned. No amount of coin would have tempted him back.”
“I am not the boy you knew.” Why was he so interested suddenly? Wasn’t I meant to be the one asking questions? “Why do you and Rochefort despise each other so?”
“I’ve never given him what he wants.”
“Oh?” I asked, keeping my gaze on the soapy water. “And what is that?”
“Control.”
I flicked my gaze up. “Control of what?”
“This town, its people, me. In his mind, he believes himself to be more than a lord. He thinks himself a god and us his subjects. To him, we are no more than toys created to please him.”
The hairs on the back of my neck tingled. “You speak as though you know him well, yet he denies ever meeting you.” Drying my hands on a towel, I turned my back on the mirror and faced him. “Why is that?”
“Do you often take a man at his word, Mr. Anzio?”
“You’re suggesting he lied?”
“Sometimes liars believe their own lies so much they make them truths, don’t you think?”
“Nothing can change the nature of truth at its root.”
Devere blinked slowly, like a cat lazing in the sun. “You really have been away from Minerva too long.”
I sighed and leaned back against the washbasin. “Not long enough, it seems.” Like this, with him appearing so relaxed as he leaned against the doorframe, he was almost pleasant to converse with. When he wasn’t demanding that I leave or holding a pistol to my face. We’d once had many a joyful afternoon together. He hadn’t been so… cold, and I hadn’t ruined everything by taking our mismatched friendship too far.
He hadn’t changed, not by much. Grown colder, yes, but he’d had reason to, given the town’s distrust of him. I’d admired him long ago. No, not admired. We’d been more than that. We’d been true friends.
In the quiet, I wanted to ask him to sit with me, talk with me, help me discover who had killed his father. But if I asked for his help, he’d slam the door in my face. Although, last night, I had asked him for help, and he’d opened the door. So perhaps not all was lost between us.
