I’m good at this. I used to fool Mom all the time as a teen. I could do the worst things and get away with them. But of course, no dead bodies were involved then.
Detective Collins takes a deep breath. “Ms. Laurent, we’re very sorry for your loss, and we know this must be a lot to take in, but it’s important we help our colleagues in France with their investigation.”
“Investigation?” I say, bringing my hand to my chest.
“That’s generally what happens when someone dies like this.”
I swallow hard.Come on, Cassie. You can do this. You’ll be fine.They can’t prove anything.“I mean, could Olivier have maybe committed suicide?”
I say it like it just occurred to me, like it wasn’t my plan all along. To be fair, I didn’t mean to hit him with the iron. He grabbed it first; it was self-defense. But then he held it over my head and froze, his eyes pooling with anguish. I took advantage of a split second of hesitation on his part. It was him or me. When it smashed against his head, it startled me, like I wasn’t the one doing it. I thought he might be dead for a moment. I could picture the police rushing into the room and clasping handcuffs around my wrists. And then I realized: Iwantedhim gone. That way there would only be one side to the story: mine. No messy divorce, no risk that he’d come after my money, that he would try to kill me again. He wouldn’t let me go, so he’d get what he deserved.
He was starting to come to and I was enraged, determined to keep him away forever. That’s when I saw the bottle of pills. Two could play at this game. So I gave him a glass of water, but he wouldn’t take it. He tried to fight me, but he was too dizzy to resist when I straddled him, my knees digging into the crook of his elbows, and poured the liquid down his throat. Just some water. Some cloudy water. Three sips for the marriage he tricked me into, and three more for getting in my way. Like I said, it was self-defense. Then the glass was empty, and as I walked out the door, I tried to forget exactly how many pills I’d crushed into it.
“You’re correct that suicide is the most reasonable explanation. But there are a few outstanding elements we need to clear up.”
Detective Jackson glances at her colleague, who takes over. “Ms. Laurent, why did you leave your honeymoon early? And without your husband?”
I let out a deep sigh, then turn to Taylor. She has to be a part of this, whether she likes it or not. “I was just telling Tay about this. It all happened so fast.”
Slowly she turns to me, like I awoke her from a spell. I never call herTay. It’s something I just made up, but sisters have little nicknames for each other, don’t they?
I continue. “My father died recently. We were estranged and I had no idea he was living this glamorous life in the city. I met Olivier at his funeral, about three months ago.”
The detectives nod encouragingly, and I explain the rest of the story, the one I thought through all the way home. The official version I feed them is this: I was distraught—dead dad, so hard!—and met a handsome French man. It was intense and passionate right away, and before I knew it, we were on our way to City Hall. Yes, it was fast and, well, really spontaneous, but we were having so much fun. I thought I was in love. Olivier is,was, a great guy. I had gotten out of a long relationship only days before and got swept off my feet. Shit happens when you want to be happy.
“But your wedding was only recently?” Detective Jackson says. Her right eyebrow rises so high it might touch her hairline.
“Yes, I was getting to that. After we got married, we realized it had gone alittletoo fast. I don’t have family anymore and Olivier’s is in France—”
The two detectives glance at Taylor in unison. What did I say?
Detective Jackson addresses her now. “We’re deeply sorry for your loss, too. Do you need to take a moment? You look very shocked.”
Shit, so they noticed, too. What the fuck is wrong with her? Once again, I remember what Olivier said. I’d pushed the thought to the back of my mind, certain he was only trying to rile me up, but now it’s staring back at me. Taylor does seem distraught. More than me? She can never let me have anything, not even this.
“They were close,” I say quickly, reaching for Taylor’s hand. She stares at mine. “When Olivier and I came back here, the three of us started hanging out. I mean, Taylor works hard so she’s not around much. But it was important to me that they get along.”
“And you did?” Detective Collins says to Taylor.
She starts to open her mouth, but I can’t let her talk. “May I have some water? I’m feeling a bit faint. This is all too much.”
Taylor takes a deep breath, and for a few seconds, nobody moves. “Yes, we were close,” she says.
Then, she gets up and walks off to the kitchen. The three of us sit in horrifying silence, the sound of the tap running our only soundtrack. Taylor comes back out carrying four glasses of water on our old wooden tray, but her hands shake so much that it spills all over.
Detective Jackson waits until she’s sitting back down. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.”
I gulp down my water, noisy gargles drowning everything else for a moment.
“I’m the sister,” she says. “Cassie’s sister. Taylor Quinn.”
“My mother adopted her when she was a teen,” I say. “We’re not, like…blood.Her mom was a distant cousin of my mom.”
“Legally, we’re sisters,” Taylor says plainly.
Detective Collins frowns in my direction. “You said you had no family left. It’s a bit confusing, is all.”
“My husband died.”
