The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière Page B

apologized.
    “Not to worry. Let me open this for you.”
    Madame Préau took a key ring out of her pocket and unlocked the gate warily. She had insisted to the social worker that her name not be mentioned in the file, but you never knew what to expect from someone employed by the County Council. The man had something of the military about him despite his casual attire. Thick neck, square chin, beefy shoulders—he looked like he was built to carry bags of cement.
    “My wife insisted,” he said. “It was her idea. But I haven’t introduced myself…”
    His voice was coarse and nasal. He crushed her right hand. A slight smell of frying emanated from his clothes.
    “Philippe Desmoulins. And this is our little Laurie.”
    The girl stood hidden behind her father’s legs, clinging to his tracksuit bottoms.
    “Come on, you have not given up on your shy routine?”
    The man caught the little girl by the arm and pushed her in front of him.
    “Say hello to the lady. We’re here because of you.”
    Laurie gave Madame Préau a nasty look.
    The old lady felt as if she had run all the way from the station to the bakery. Her heart began to beat so hard that the blood rushed to her face.
    There was no doubt about it: Laurie
knew
.
    She had probably seen her in the window on Sunday. She had seen her brother throw stones into her garden, guessed their little game, and maybe even found a caramel behind the cedar hedge. Had she told her parents? And had they made the connection with being called in by the social worker? What if Mr. Desmoulins came to worm it out of her before settling the score?
If it’s that old bitch neighbor who sold us out, she’s a dead woman!
    The man looked up to the roof, blinking. His blond eyelashes were almost transparent.
    “You have a very beautiful house, madam. What year was it built?”
    Madame Préau squeezed the key ring against her chest. She had not thought of this. She had not imagined that she would find herself in this situation. A soft autumn light washed over the garden plants, the leaves took on amber glints, and the hydrangeas shook their brocaded petals once again.
    It was a perfect day to meet a bad end. Prepared for the worst, Madame Préau leaned down to the child.
    “Nineteen oh eight. Hello, Laurie.”

33
     
    They had not come about the stone boy. They were there about the piano. Madame Desmoulins had heard at the pharmacy near the station that there was a lady living on Rue des Lilas who had once given musical theory lessons. She had decided that it could only be Madame Préau, whose little Sunday afternoon concerts were so appreciated. So, she had given her husband the job of asking if Laurie could be one of her students.
    Madame Préau nearly died. She composed herself. She apologized for her slightly chilly welcome, justifying herself by explaining that she instinctively distrusted anyone she didn’t know ringing the doorbell. She said that she did indeed know the Pommier’s pharmacist where she was occasionally a customer—appreciating as she did their range of compression stockings and socks. She hesitated before inviting Mr. Desmoulins and his daughter into her home, but she had no choice: entering into their game was the only logical option.
    “I would like to evaluate Laurie’s level before giving my answer.”
    While the girl perched on the piano stool playing the first notes of some nursery rhymes, Madame Préau served her father a coffee, which he knocked back—black, no sugar. They talked about the neighborhood and the building site, about how not all the houses on the street were connected to the sewage mains, the problems caused by the alternate parking system, and the lack of double glazing on Madame Préau’s windows.
    “I can get you a good price if you’re interested. I work at Lapeyre. I do the installations.”
    “What are the chances,” the old lady replied sarcastically.
    “It would be less noisy, and warmer in the winter, that’s for