The Summer of Dead Toys Read Online Free PDF

noise of the fridge started up again.
“He sent me some emails. Oh, stop!” She gave the white wall a powerful thump; this time the noise stopped immediately. “Sorry. It’s driving me crazy.”
He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and Joana feared for a moment the old piece of junk wouldn’t bear his weight.
“I gave him your email,” he explained. “He asked me for it from Ireland. I was very unsure about doing it, but in the end I couldn’t say no. Marc wasn’t a child any longer and he had the right to know certain things.”
She said nothing. She knew Fèlix hadn’t finished.
“A week later he wrote to me again, saying he hadn’t received an answer. Is that true?”
Joana fought back her tears.
“What did you want me to tell him?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “His email came out of nowhere. At the beginning I didn’t how to answer.” She brushed her hand across her face, taking a stray tear with her. “I was thinking it over. I wrote messages without ever sending them. He kept insisting. Finally I answered and we maintained a sort of contact until he suggested coming to Paris in one of his emails.”
“You didn’t get to see him?”
She shook her head.
“You know I’ve always been a coward,” she said, with a hint of a bitter smile. “I suppose I failed him again.”
Fèlix lowered his head.
“Why are you still here? You’re only hurting yourself. You need to reclaim your life. Go back to Paris.”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do.” She didn’t move and for the first time she looked the priest in the eye, without hesitation. “I’m staying here until I know what happened that night. This vague explanation—maybe he fell, maybe he jumped— means nothing. Maybe he was pushed . . .”
“It was an accident, Joana. Don’t torture yourself with this.” She didn’t listen to him: she continued speaking as if she couldn’t stop.
“And I don’t understand how Enric accepts it. Doesn’t he want to know what happened?”
“He already knows. It’s a tragedy, but you have to move on. Wallowing in sorrow is morbid.”
“The truth isn’t morbid, Fèlix! It’s necessary. At least, I need it.”
“For what?” He sensed they were reaching the heart of the matter. He got up and went toward his ex-sister-in-law. Her knees buckled under her and she would have fallen to the floor if he hadn’t held her up.
“To know how much I am to blame,” murmured Joana. “And the price I have to pay.”
“This isn’t the way to atone for blame, Joana.”
“Atone for blame?” She raised a hand to her forehead; she was sweating again. “Your jargon doesn’t change, Fèlix. Blame isn’t atoned for; it’s carried!”
The phrase echoed for a few moments of terse silence. Fèlix tried for the last time, although he was conscious that the battle was lost.
“You will hurt many people who are trying to get over this. Enric, his wife, his daughter. Me. I loved Marc a lot too: he was more than a nephew. I watched him grow up.”
Suddenly she straightened up. She took Fèlix’s hand and squeezed it. “Sometimes pain is inevitable, Fèlix.” She flashed a sad smile at him before turning round and walking to the door of the flat. She opened it and stood there, waiting for him to go. As he came nearer, she added, “You have to learn to live with it.” Her tone changed and she pronounced her next words with a cold, formal air, free of emotion. “I spoke to Savall this morning. He’s assigned the case to an inspector. Tell Enric. This isn’t finished, Fèlix.”
He nodded, and gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving. Out on the landing, before starting his descent, he turned back to her.
“There are things better left unfinished.”
Joana pretended not to hear him and closed the door. Then she remembered she’d left her email open and sat down to read it.

3
    It was half past twelve by the time a taxi left Héctor in front of the Post Office building. That ancient, solid mass protected a