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Her mother had always been an outsider Tolerated by her father’s extended fa aunts and uncles, but never loved Or respected Or accepted She’d tried, Nichol knew Taking on the petty prejudices and opinions of the Nickolevs But they’d only laughed at her, and changed their opinions

She was pathetic Always striving to fit in, to get the affection of people who’d never, ever give it, and despised her for trying

‘You’re just like your mother’ The heavily accented words lay leaden in Yvette Nichol’s head It was, perhaps, the only French her aunts and uncles spoke Meht memorize a sord Fuck Shit You’re just like your mother Hell

No, it was her father she loved And he loved her And protected her from the swarm of accents and smells and insults in her own home

‘Don’t put any make-up on’ His voice penetrated the bathrooh

‘You’ll look younger without it More vulnerable’

‘Dad, I’m a Sûreté officer With homicide I don’t want to look vulnerable’

He was forever trying to get her to use tricks so people would like her But she knew tricks were useless People wouldn’t like her They never did

Her boss had called yesterday, interrupting Easter lunch with the relatives All going on about hoas better in Ro in their own languages thena to-do when she didn’t understand But she did understand, enough to know they asked her father every year why she never painted eggs or baked the special bread Always finding fault No one had commented on her new haircut or new clothes or asked about her job She was an agent with the Sûreté du Québec, for God’s sake The only successful one in the entire pathetic faodda they’d have shown more interest

She’d run down the hallith the phone and ducked into her bedroom, so her boss wouldn’t hear the hilarity at her expense, the cackling that passed as laughter

‘Do you reo?’

‘About the Arnot case?’

‘Yes, but you ain Understand?’