“No. We don’t.” “They did.” Arsène stands back, his voice steady and low. “Why? Because you always choose to believe the worst about people?” I lean against my cue. “For at least nine months.” He ignores my question. “Nine months?” Something inside me goes slack. That can’t possibly be right. “Yes.” Arsène takes his turn, striking the stripy red ball straight into a pocket. “How do you know?” I try to angle my stick on the table and, again, it slips. If this is right . . . if Arsène is telling the truth . . . then that means . . . For the first time in months, I feel. Oh, do I feel. Anger.
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