Read Online The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sophie Loubière
Tags: Suspense, Mystery, Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense, Fiction / Literary, Fiction / Psychological
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hadn’t noticed. It looks like she’s drawn something… a dog, perhaps?”
“Do you think it looks like an animal?”
The headmistress seemed disconcerted by the discovery, too. She would ask Mr. Di Pesa tomorrow. Maybe he would know what the little girl had drawn. The headmistress seemed worried as she went back down the stairs.
“Why are you so interested in the Desmoulins family? Is there a problem?”
Caught off guard, the old woman almost missed a step. She clung to the railing. The headmistress took her by the elbow.
“The staircase is a bit steep, be careful.”
“Thank you. I forgot. The Desmoulins family and I are neighbors. We don’t know each other very well yet, but the mother asked if I would give extra classes to their son. I thought she was talking about their older son… Seeing as Kévin is only in the youngest class… Maybe I misunderstood.”
“I see. Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow at break time at about three? I’ll be in my office. I might have the answer about the drawing.”
Madame Préau thanked the headmistress warmly for the spontaneous visit. On the way back, she walked as fast as she could, holding up the collar of her coat. The sun had disappeared and the cold—or perhaps the excitement—reddened her cheeks.
Notes: Friday 25 September
Called the headmistress at three as agreed.
Got the answering machine three times.
On the fourth attempt, got the expected response: no brother in the Desmoulins family.
Confirmed by the academic records of the two children.
According to her teacher, Laurie would have drawn her “imaginary friend.”
The teacher asked me to say nothing of my visit to the school. She seems to be afraid of something, but what?
Trust no one.
Even teachers.
On the way back from Intermarché at five, found a plastic bag full of plums hanging on the gate. A note written on the back of an advertising circular from the Post Office:
“I buried Brutus. But I cannot wash my hair or it will fall out (because of the radiation caused by mobile phones). Thank you for your nice message. I will keep it in mind. Delphine Blanche.”
6:30 p.m. Saw Mr. Desmoulins car back into the garage. No child in the backseat or the front seat.
12:10 a.m. Noises in the attic. Take my 4 mg of Risperdal and also my Stilnox, which will allow me to sleep—the effect is very noticeable.
Thinking about buying mousetraps.
22
The man stopped short in front of the piano. “Is this is a Gabriel Gaveau?”
“In walnut veneer. Art nouveau,” specified Madame Préau.
“The Sun model. Nineteen twenty-five?”
“Nineteen twenty.”
The piano tuner put his toolbag on the polished floor and approached the instrument slowly. He ran his fingers over the frame and crouched to feel lower down.
“Keyboard on console columns with a carved leaf motif.”
He stroked the double arms, light moving along the piano’s feminine curves, and slid his hands into the brass handles, strummed the keys covered in yellowed ivory, and then, abruptly, opened the belly of piano. Sitting in the background, her hands folded in her lap, Madame Préau stared at the piano tuner, a lingering hint of distrust in her heart. She had not appreciated the doorbell ringing an hour ahead of schedule. The tuner had a Breton-sounding name and an Asian face. Which certainly did not improve matters. Madame Préau only opened her home to people who had clearly identified themselves. The man had to introduce himself, pass his business card through the grille of the gate, explain how he had been adopted by his parents in an orphanage in Cambodia, and justify his being early by explaining that a previous appointment had been cancelled before Madame Préau finally agreed to let him into her home.
“The mechanism is out of tune and dusty, but in good condition.”
He turned to the owner of the premises. “I’ll need at least an hour.”
“Very well.”
“You’re going to stay here?”
“Yes, why? Would it bother
“Do you think it looks like an animal?”
The headmistress seemed disconcerted by the discovery, too. She would ask Mr. Di Pesa tomorrow. Maybe he would know what the little girl had drawn. The headmistress seemed worried as she went back down the stairs.
“Why are you so interested in the Desmoulins family? Is there a problem?”
Caught off guard, the old woman almost missed a step. She clung to the railing. The headmistress took her by the elbow.
“The staircase is a bit steep, be careful.”
“Thank you. I forgot. The Desmoulins family and I are neighbors. We don’t know each other very well yet, but the mother asked if I would give extra classes to their son. I thought she was talking about their older son… Seeing as Kévin is only in the youngest class… Maybe I misunderstood.”
“I see. Why don’t you give me a ring tomorrow at break time at about three? I’ll be in my office. I might have the answer about the drawing.”
Madame Préau thanked the headmistress warmly for the spontaneous visit. On the way back, she walked as fast as she could, holding up the collar of her coat. The sun had disappeared and the cold—or perhaps the excitement—reddened her cheeks.
Notes: Friday 25 September
Called the headmistress at three as agreed.
Got the answering machine three times.
On the fourth attempt, got the expected response: no brother in the Desmoulins family.
Confirmed by the academic records of the two children.
According to her teacher, Laurie would have drawn her “imaginary friend.”
The teacher asked me to say nothing of my visit to the school. She seems to be afraid of something, but what?
Trust no one.
Even teachers.
On the way back from Intermarché at five, found a plastic bag full of plums hanging on the gate. A note written on the back of an advertising circular from the Post Office:
“I buried Brutus. But I cannot wash my hair or it will fall out (because of the radiation caused by mobile phones). Thank you for your nice message. I will keep it in mind. Delphine Blanche.”
6:30 p.m. Saw Mr. Desmoulins car back into the garage. No child in the backseat or the front seat.
12:10 a.m. Noises in the attic. Take my 4 mg of Risperdal and also my Stilnox, which will allow me to sleep—the effect is very noticeable.
Thinking about buying mousetraps.
22
The man stopped short in front of the piano. “Is this is a Gabriel Gaveau?”
“In walnut veneer. Art nouveau,” specified Madame Préau.
“The Sun model. Nineteen twenty-five?”
“Nineteen twenty.”
The piano tuner put his toolbag on the polished floor and approached the instrument slowly. He ran his fingers over the frame and crouched to feel lower down.
“Keyboard on console columns with a carved leaf motif.”
He stroked the double arms, light moving along the piano’s feminine curves, and slid his hands into the brass handles, strummed the keys covered in yellowed ivory, and then, abruptly, opened the belly of piano. Sitting in the background, her hands folded in her lap, Madame Préau stared at the piano tuner, a lingering hint of distrust in her heart. She had not appreciated the doorbell ringing an hour ahead of schedule. The tuner had a Breton-sounding name and an Asian face. Which certainly did not improve matters. Madame Préau only opened her home to people who had clearly identified themselves. The man had to introduce himself, pass his business card through the grille of the gate, explain how he had been adopted by his parents in an orphanage in Cambodia, and justify his being early by explaining that a previous appointment had been cancelled before Madame Préau finally agreed to let him into her home.
“The mechanism is out of tune and dusty, but in good condition.”
He turned to the owner of the premises. “I’ll need at least an hour.”
“Very well.”
“You’re going to stay here?”
“Yes, why? Would it bother
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