“No.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that, up until that night, they were anything other than a married couple enjoying their honeymoon?”
“No.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that any foul play was involved in the death of Olivier Laurent?”
I say it louder this time. “No.”
“So he was a great guy you became friendly with, and when his wife left, he suddenly was heartbroken over it and took his own life, even though it was supposedly his idea to stay in Paris without her. Is that what you think happened?”
“I have no idea what happened.”
“Because you weren’t there?”
My throat feels like it’s closing up. Do they already know I was in Paris? They could have spoken to Amir. But it would have come up by now. I have to hang on to that.
The detective lets out a pained sigh. “You were very distraught when we came to your house.”
This time I stare into her eyes. “People keep dying around me. It’s not a great feeling.”
“I can only imagine. Is there anything you would like to add at this time? A man was found dead in his honeymoon suite after his new wife walked away from their marriage. We don’t want to draw conclusions too quickly unless we’re certain.”
But I think she knows the answer before I open my mouth. In fact, she’s eyeing the door. Ihaveto let them draw these conclusions, because the truth is so much worse. I have nothing else to say to her. So she lets me go.
And now I have to live without him. As I drive home, tears blurring my vision, fingers gripped tight around the steering wheel, all I can think about is that I have to end this. I can’t go on like this, knowing what happened.
But I’m still alive when I get back to the house. Because as much as I want to beat myself up for what happened to my love, I want to hurt Cassie a whole lot more.
Chapter 34
Cassie
Now
The wake felt like having another wedding, only over a few days and with less dancing. Somebody else was bringing the food—I have enough to eat for a week—but even the flowers looked the same. All along, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being tested. People had so many questions. Were we fighting? Did I ever see the dark side to him? Why didn’t I stay? I was having so much fun! And why didn’t I want to live in Paris with him? It sure looked like I was loving it.
The detectives call again, several times. Once, it’s to confirm that Olivier did die of an overdose of sleeping pills. Hearing it knocks the wind out of me. I’m not a monster. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t tried to kill me first.
The second time, it’s to ask about his visa status and green card application. For one spine-tingling moment, I wonder if the immigration lawyer told them about our phone call. I asked about a divorce two days before Olivier supposedly suggested we call it quits. But I stuck to my story. We fell in love. We got married. And if I could help Olivier get a green card, then why not? I wanted him to stay here. It made sense. I don’t know much about how it all works; Olivier handled that part. Yes, I think hisapplication was in progress. Though of course, he wouldn’t need it anymore since he changed his mind and wanted to stay in Paris.
The detectives don’t mention talking to the immigration lawyer, so I have to assume what I said to her really is confidential information. I’m too scared to call her—what if the police are tracking my phone?—so I look it up online. She might have to divulge the content of our conversations if I was suspected of murder. Which, well…but that’s not going to happen. If the police suspected me, then why aren’t they here already? Why wait? They have nothing on me. It was self-defense. They can’t prove anything.
Finally, the moment comes when I have the house to myself. Even Taylor is gone, who knows where. She’s been acting weird all this time. I mean, even weirder than usual. At night I lie in bed listening to the sounds around the house. The ticking clock, the creaky stairs. Taylor’s bedroom is down the hall from mine. There should be no creaking. I can’t squash the feeling that something is coming. This can’t be the end of it. I killed someone. I could have walked out of that room after I hit him. But no one will ever know. It was self-defense. I have to keep repeating it in my head. If it comes to that, I’ll be ready.
In the kitchen, the smell of the beef stew Madeline brought over escapes from under the lid. It makes me want to throw up. Trying to shake the feeling away, I drag a chair against the counter and get up to check the striped cookie jar.
The money is gone. I can tell even before I lift the lid. When my inheritance came through, I couldn’t help but stare at the number on my account. It felt unreal. Ridiculous, even. Olivier kept rambling on about everything he needed to buy to work on the inn—tools and supplies and whatnot—but I wasn’t comfortable giving him my credit card details. I never trusted him, not even as he watched all those YouTube videos, painfully trying to learn how to patch holes in the wall or how to fix a squeaky door.
I checked my bank balance several times a day, feeling paranoid. What if it suddenly disappeared? So I took a bunch of cash out over time, gavesome to Olivier, and stuffed bills around the house. If something ever happened, I’d have that, at least.
Now I wouldn’t put it past my dear husband (RIP) to have stolen from me, especially since he was the only one who knew about the money, aside from that day I was hungover and blabbered to that sleazy Realtor. I should never have told Olivier, but I was so stunned when that cow agreed to give me so much. All that money was about to flow right into my pocket! It wouldn’t feel real until I toldsomeone.
What if Olivier didn’t steal the money? It could have been Taylor. She knows this hiding spot better than anyone else. Maybe Olivier told her about it? I never really saw them talk, but then again, I didn’t pay that much attention after I brought him here. I was too busy dangling Olivier in everyone’s faces. But Taylor doesn’t get to steal anything else from me.
Her room has always given me the saddest vibes. Everything is organized and tidy—not one bra littering the floor, no snack wrappers on the small desk by the window. It smells like the green tea candle she likes to burn and freshly vacuumed carpet. Like a life not lived. The nightstand drawer only confirms this feeling. It’s full of half-used ChapSticks, a box of tissues, and a notepad with a grocery list. Poor Taylor.
In her tiny closet, the T-shirts are stored by color (black or gray), the underwear is stacked in a neat pile, and two belts are wrapped in a tight circle. When we were younger and Mom complained about the state of my room, I’d make Taylor clean it up for me. The first time I asked, it was almost a joke. No, a dare. But she did it, so I kept asking. Maybe sheshouldstay living with me. The house is too big for me to maintain on my own. Just kidding. I can’t wait to never see her again.
