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been truly annoying.
When Philip went down to let Monsieur Bécot know he’d be staying another night, the old man’s expression darkened.
“You’d rather I left, wouldn’t you?” Philip said.
“That is not for me to decide, Monsieur Adler.” His nose approached the register as he amended the reservation. “But I know Yvetot. I have lived here all my life. I know the names, the people. At least the ones that are left. So many families are gone now. Yvetot is a dying town.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
Bécot paused and looked up. “There have been so many problems here, you know. The Germans destroyed Yvetot. Then came the occupation. Then the collaboration. One pain after another.”
“That was nearly sixty-five years ago.”
Bécot flicked his hand. “What I am saying, Monsieur Adler, is that people in Yvetot are not interested in going back to the past. Just ask Monsieur Guérin at the archives in the town hall: no one goes there. People, they do not wish to be reminded of these problems. Especially by someone who does not—if you will excuse the expression—who does not belong here.”
Philip’s temper rose. So he was an unwelcome guest. Yes, Sophie’s rape and murder had attracted the press, casting Yvetot in a bad light. The journalists had salted their articles with subtle insinuations, hinting that something was wrong in a town where such a crime could take place, where no one foresaw what a boy like Édouard Morin might do. Philip’s return now picked open the old scabs of shame.
But after all, he told himself, it was Yvetot’s fault. They should have helped Édouard Morin before it was too late. Instead, they’d refused to face the facts, had waited too long, and his family had borne the cost. And now they dared assert that he didn’t belong?
“And you, Monsieur Bécot?” he pressed. “Is that how you feel?”
“Me?” Bécot’s face was hard to read. “I run a hotel, Monsieur. It is my job to welcome people who come to our town. So I do not take sides.”
“I suppose I should thank you for your honesty.”
Bécot turned his attention to the register. “I wish you a very fine stay, Monsieur Adler. You will be at the Aubert home this evening, is that right? I look forward to seeing you at check-out in the morning.”
 
 
In his room Philip attempted a nap before the gathering but only managed to study the flaking paint of the ceiling. The window was open, and the fabric shade of the light swayed with the breeze.
His mind refused to shut down. Everything in Yvetot reminded him of Sophie, and Sophie made him think of Morin. What, he wondered, would that boy look like now? What had become of his father, Olivier, that pitiful, apprehensive little man?
He closed his eyes, desperate for a nap, but sleep wouldn’t come. Memories nuzzled at his mind’s gate like kenneled dogs.

 
Five
 
The dinner proved to be a heavily populated event with a buffet laid out in the dining room of the Aubert home. The house was a stone structure, a hundred and fifty years old, three stories tall, large enough for a separate service stairway in the back, and rich with history. It had been spared by German artillery thanks to its location on the outskirts of town. During the Nazi occupation, officers had been billeted there, and according to family legend a certain lieutenant colonel had enjoyed taking target practice in the dining room. Now guests roamed about the spacious rooms of the main floor carrying plates and glasses, moving from group to group. Philip stepped gingerly through this familiar space. A few furnishings had changed since his last trip to Yvetot, but the portrait of Yvonne’s father still glared down from above the mantel, and even now Philip couldn’t tell if the old ghost approved of him.
He met Flora’s and Évelyne’s children, each name promptly displaced in his memory by the next. Overall, he marveled at how few of the creatures in this house he actually knew,