Page 34 of A Life Betrayed

“And if he doesn’t roll over?”

“Then she’ll probably trial him anyway,” Gagnon said. “Allen is ruthless. She has something of a reputation.”

Does she?Mathias seethed.

The cop swallowed audibly, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained. “I may have to keep communication brief in the next few days. There’s additional scrutiny with HQ involved, and they’re keeping a close eye on the office.”

“Brief?” Mathias mocked. “You’ll answer when I call, Gagnon. Unless your wife would like to know about the apartment I bought for your new mistress.” He hung up and absently tapped his phone against his knee. Allen was going after Rayan. At least she didn’t know that he was here in Montreal, hiding out under her very nose.

In his hand, his phone gave a short buzz, and Mathias pulled up the file Gagnon had sent through. He scanned the document on the screen, a spike of anger lodging in his throat. Then he dropped his phone onto the seat beside him and gunned the engine, startling the couple by the elevator as he squealed out of the garage. He had an errand to run.

Maskinongé was just over an hour’s drive from Montreal. The landscape changed rapidly the farther out of the city Mathias got, buildings giving way to long stretches of empty farmland punctuated by the occasional gas station. He didn’t oftenventure this far into the province. He’d always found rural Quebec more dreary than idyllic.

The town itself consisted of a main street lined with weathered-looking stores housing an array of local businesses: grocer, drug store, butcher. Farther down the street was a small school with a rusted jungle gym out front. From there, the road led out of town, and the houses became more spread out, set on blocks of empty land speckled with the odd piece of farm machinery or the remains of a stripped-out car.

Several miles along this road was where André Nadeau lived. Mathias pulled the Bentley into the gravel driveway beside the house as spatters of rain crowded the windshield. The place was a dump. The paint had long since peeled off the cladding, and the front yard was littered with all manner of trash and debris. Both of the windows facing the road were covered with what looked like black plastic. He tried to imagine a young Rayan growing up here, a boy slipping through the broken slats on the porch railing and dodging the minefield of glass bottles strewn across the snow-dusted lawn. But try as he might, he couldn’t.

Mathias got out of the car, fastening his coat against the increasing downpour, and made his way up the path toward the house. He sidestepped the holes in the rotting wooden steps and raised a gloved hand to knock loudly on the front door. From inside, he could hear someone shuffling about, the creak of floorboards, and the methodical unlatching of locks.

A man eased open the door. He looked older than he should, his sagging face crisscrossed with angry red spider veins, his skin a jaundiced yellow. And the smell—it was enough to turn Mathias’s stomach, as though the man were being pickled from the inside.

“Who’re you?” André Nadeau glowered. “I don’t want nothing to do with Jesus, you hear?”

He began to close the door, but Mathias put his foot across the threshold, pressing his weight against the panel, and found it gave way easily in André’s grip. “Trust me, he wants nothing to do with you,” Mathias said, forcing the door open and stepping into the house.

Beside him, André stood impotently, his hand still clutching the doorknob. Mathias took in the surrounding dimness, the covered windows shutting out all light from the outside. The place smelled of unwashed bodies and decay, the odor sticking to the back of his throat.

“You had a lot to say to the police about your son,” he said, his eyes flicking to the cans of beer lined up along the coffee table. In the corner, the TV was on at a low murmur. “Funny, since you haven’t seen him in the better part of twenty years.”

“I know his character,” André said gruffly. “He was always up to no good, no surprises there.”

“Especially considering his gilded childhood,” Mathias scoffed. “Did you tell them what a doting father you were?”

He felt the anger then, white-hot, simmering in his chest. The intensity caught him off guard. André Nadeau was no one to him yet summoned a hatred reminiscent of what he’d felt for his own father. Rayan didn’t speak much about his life before they’d met, but Mathias knew enough. He knew what it was like to have the odds stacked against you by your own family.

His gaze returned to André standing by the door, shriveled and diminished. “He doesn’t look anything like you,” Mathias remarked, cocking his head. “That must have been a disappointment—two sons and not a glimmer of resemblance. I’d say they both got off lucky.”

André scowled. “They got her coloring, that’s for sure. Her rabid insolence. Mongrels through and through.”

Mathias moved into the kitchen, not sure what propelled him, both curious and repulsed. It was an eternal mystery how twostrangers possessed the ability to create someone so different from themselves. He’d always thought that about his own parents and felt the same thing now. He couldn’t imagine how the man who’d come to mean so much to him had sprung forth from this creature.

He took in the filth—the unwashed dishes stacked by the sink, the trash spilling from an overflowing bin in the corner of the room. On the fridge, a single cream-colored business card was held fast with a magnet. Mathias knew whose name he would find printed on the front of that card.

André had followed him into the kitchen and stood watching, his arms crossed. “So, what—you’re with the cops too? I already told that woman all I know.”

“Do I look like a cop?” Mathias’s eyes dropped to the counter, where a carving knife lay abandoned on a plastic cutting board. He picked it up and turned to André. “He might not have taken after you, but you made sure to leave your mark.”

André stumbled backward as Mathias advanced.

“What’s it like, slicing a little boy’s throat?” Mathias shoved him against the wall, bringing the knife to André’s neck. “How old was he—six, seven?” He pressed the point into the withered flesh, slowly increasing the pressure. Something in him itched to pierce the skin. “Must have been a real rush, watching him squirm.”

André’s bloodshot eyes widened in recognition, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Who are you?” he wheezed.

Mathias thought of that first night at the safe house, how dull Rayan’s eyes looked in the dark. Rayan had shuddered when he’d climbed into bed beside him and Mathias felt the weight of something there with them, a part of the man he’d never truly known.

Making André Nadeau pay wouldn’t change a damn thing. It couldn’t undo what had already been done. Mathias releasedhim, stepping back and tossing the knife into the sink. André slid to the floor, panting. Mathias took the inspector’s card from the fridge and flicked it down at the man’s feet.

“Call your friend, and tell her you’re a pathetic old man who makes up stories,” he said in a hard voice. “A lying drunk who left his kid for dead and hasn’t seen him since.”

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