“The husband you left during your honeymoon,” Detective Jackson says. “Why’d you leave, Ms. Laurent?”
“Olivier and Ibothrealized we’d rushed into it. It was fun while it lasted, but we weren’treallyready to commit to each other for life. After a few days in Paris, he told me he missed France too much. He wanted to stay there, and we both knew that meant without me.”
“And you were okay with that?”
I nod. “We made a mistake.”
“Hmm…except Mr. Laurent is no longer here to make mistakes.”
Finally,finally, the tears come. Not many, and I have to force them a little, but here I am, the broken wife, the widow. At last. When I start sobbing, they leave me alone for a couple of minutes. The three of them sit there, watching me cry. Then, Detective Jackson asks me to relate my last hours in Paris, step by step.
I tell them about my night of self-care, how relaxing that bath was. And that wine,yummy. Olivier came home a little drunk—understandable!—and woke me up. We had a long, calm, and loving discussion. No harsh words were exchanged. And no, Olivier was never violent with me. Such a kind, honest man. You know, aside from the fact that he drugged me and tried to murder me. Twice. How good it felt to smash the iron into his head. To watch him be completely at my mercy as I poured the water down his throat. I didn’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t thinking clearly but it felt so right in the moment. Of course I don’t share that last part.
“After we were done talking, I couldn’t go back to sleep. So I got up and packed my suitcase. I thought about booking another room but I checked online, and the hotel was full. It felt like a sign that I should go home. I took a taxi to the airport and waited there most of the day to get a seat on a flight home.”
I didn’t actually check if the hotel was full, so I have to hope it was, in the middle of summer. For the rest, I can only assume they have video footage of me leaving the suite, then the hotel, then getting into a taxi. I was calm then. So relieved. When I’m done talking, the detectives remain still, their faces blank.
“Mind if we ask you a few questions now?” Detective Jackson says to Taylor.
For the first time since they arrived, I really look at her. She’s even paler now, if that’s even possible. Her eyes are red-rimmed and tears threaten to stream down her face. It’smyhusband who died (bless his soul), and she’s out here stealing my thunder. Again.
I have to stop her. “I’m sorry, but this is all such a shock. I think I need to go lie down. We both do.”
“Okay,” Jackson says. “We don’t want to keep you too long for now, and we’ll be in touch as soon as we have more information.”
I smile painfully, then we all get up and I lead them toward the door, where they give me their condolences one more time. I don’t exhale until they’re back in their car, driving away from me.
In the meantime, Taylor has disappeared off into the kitchen. I find her leaning over the sink, her palms pressing on either side of it. At first it looks like she’s throwing up, but in fact she’s sobbing hard, so much that it sounds like she’s choking.
“What?” she barks after a minute without looking up.
It hits me for real this time. Olivier wasn’t lying. Somethingwasgoing on between them.
“What indeed,” I say coolly. “What was that all about in there? What aren’t you telling me?”
She straightens up and takes a deep breath before turning to me. “You killed him. You two had a fight and—”
“We didn’t fight,” I cut in, crossing my arms against my chest. “We had the best time in Paris. You know that. Everybody knows that.” Twice she opens her mouth to respond. Both times she closes it again without saying a word. “What reason could I have to kill my husband? Please, find one. I’ll be waiting.”
“You—” She lets out a strangled breath and doesn’t finish her sentence.
“I didn’t do anything. And you should be very careful what you tell anyone. You wouldn’t want to accuse your darling sister without proof.”
We stand there for a while, staring at each other. Taylor has always been my downfall. The one who stole love, space, time. I’m not going to let her take my freedom, too.
Chapter 33
Thérèse
Now
She killed him. She’s lying.Of courseshe’s lying.
A dozen times, I grab my phone to call the detectives and tell them. Cassie’s story doesn’t hold up one bit. Olivier didn’t want to die. He didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t. He loved me. What he wanted was to be with me. I even look up the number to the police station online, then immediately close the tab. I can’t prove anything. As far as the world knows, Olivier and Cassie were happy. That’s what the photos show. Cassie has the receipts. And what do I have? Nothing.
Worse. I’d have to explain that I was having an affair with my sister’s husband. They would press me with endless questions and I would for sure crack under the pressure. I’m not like Cassie, a cold-blooded murderer, almost smiling as she was told her husband had died. Even if I could keep my face straight, I’d be forced to admit that I followed them to Paris, that I stalked them under my cap and behind my sunglasses like a damn sociopath. And if that didn’t make me sound unhinged enough, I’d have to explain that Olivier had a plan. That he drugged her that night. Thathewas going to killher.
I know my sister killed her husband because he was out to kill her. And he was out to kill her to be with me.
