I recalled her sad history, wondering how old she really was when she had Camille.
“Where is she, Camille?”
“Detective, I’m not lying to you. She doesn’t tell me where she goes, or the finer details of what she does. All I can tell you is you won’t catch her. She’ll never see justice done to her because she won’t ever let anyone put her in a cage again.”
Her words hit hard. I knew she’d had a rough life, but from the way Camille explained it, it would have been harder than I could imagine.
It didn’t change facts.
She was a serial murderer. I had to put her in a cage, whether she wanted to be in one or not.
That was the law.
“She’s done a lot of bad things, Camille. She must know what’s coming.”
Camille sat back in her chair and sighed, folding her hands over her lap. Everything about it was just so elegant, so delicate, it made me wonder how she had such a privileged life when her mother was always on the run.
“She knows,” Camille said. “She told me she’s never met a detective before that’s gotten under her skin like you have. From the way you’re pushing me, I’m guessing she’s under yours too.”
She was perceptive. A trait she picked up from Maurelle, no doubt. “Why does she use your name for her property holdings?”
“They may be under my name, but they are hers,” she replied. “Do you know much of her upbringing?”
“Not a lot, just bits that she mentioned while she had me strapped to a board in her basement.”
Camille smirked a little before she hid it. “She didn’t kill you, that means she probably never will. She’s never developed feelings for someone before. I put it down to what her mother did to her.”
“She loves you because she was never loved by her own mother.”
Camille nodded. “Yes, she tried not to, but I suppose maternal instinct dictates who you love and who you don’t.”
“Not always,” I replied. “I’ve seen many women use their children for their own gain.”
“Do you have children, Detective?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”
“My mother was born into a compound. Her own mother was a sex slave from the age of twelve, or something around that, it’s not like there are documents on ages. In fact, my mother doesn’t really know how old she is. She was raised by the men who sold her mother over and over again, so she’ll never truly know who her father was. When she was twelve, she was sold to her first customer.”
I knew it was bad but to hear it was something completely different is that much worse. She’d known no love at such a formative age. I dreaded to think of someone being able to do that to their own child.
“She couldn’t have been too badly damaged if you grew up to be this successful and loving.”
“She didn’t raise me,” Camille said in response. “I was adopted as a baby to a charming family who raised me.”
“How did you find her then?”
“She kept an eye on me to make sure I was safe. She knew who I was and I knew who she was, even though we never really said it to each other. We have stayed in touch since I was fourteen.”
“And you knew who she was…all this time?”
“She wasn’t always this way, you know,” she said. “She really wanted to love her first husband. He was an absolute asshole. He used her for his own pleasures whenever he wanted to. He would beat her senseless and make her clean up her own mess when she would vomit or bleed. He was the only accident I think, he fell down the stairs. She was only twenty years old, she hadn’t been educated in anything other than the art of seduction, so she had no idea what she was supposed to do.”
“Is that when it started?”
“No,” she replied. “She told me that when she met Carmine, her second husband, that she was fully committed to him, as well. He was sweet, caring and loving. She loved him but unfortunately, he loved girls.”
“When you say girls-”
