It had been a perfectly calibrated thing, Armand's script. Louis understands now how much must have come from their time together, from his own folly in letting Armand into his own head. Perhaps some from Lestat in the end. Perhaps more from Claudia's diaries, surely read before they were displayed. Louis is reluctant to ask for an accouning, to try and divide up the pages, parse out who contributed which piece.

It doesn't matter. The harm had been done. The play had done its work.

Claudia is dead.

Against all odds, Louis is (still) alive.

"Few days ago."

So, recent.

"Had a someone visiting me. He tracked down a copy, tossed it on our table. Made himself an undeniable point."

There had been deniability about what came after they'd left Daniel in San Francisco. Doubt, enough that Armand's explanation found fruitful ground in which to root itself. That must have been frustrating for Daniel.

But there was no deniability about the cruel spiky notes in the margins of that script.