said Rook as they got into their taxi outside the hospital. “Nice. Mr. Sensitivity strikes again.” “What? I didn’t kill him. You did. You killed him.” “Would you please stop saying that?” “But you did. You killed Uncle Tyler.” He arched a brow at her. “I hope you’re happy now.” Heat turned away and stared out her window at the grove of blooming horse chestnuts across the highway in Bois de Boulogne. The smooth acceleration of the Mercedes pulling onto the A-13 back to Paris created the illusion that it was not the car that was in motion but the flowering orchard of trees with their sunlit white blossoms seeming to roll past her like radiant spring clouds. Of course she hadn’t killed Tyler Wynn. Of course part of her thought she had. The nag of responsibility tugged at her. She envisioned some Notre Dame gargoyle coming to life, and could hear its devilish voice rasping, “He died because of your visit. It was too much for him. You should have ignored the old man when he begged for more.”
