There’s no money anywhere. Definitely not twenty-thousand-dollars’ worth of it. As I keep searching, Olivier’s words come back to me once again. He wasn’t just saying that to hurt me. Something was going on. And maybe it doesn’t matter, or maybe it will make all the difference. I’m not out of the woods yet. But if I go down, it won’t be on my own.
I pull some of the clothes out of the closet. There’s got to be a clue somewhere. Or maybe I just need to keep busy. For the first few days after someone dies, people are all over you, pretending that your feelings are the most important thing in the world. And then they go away. Grief has an expiration date, apparently.
Taylor owns all of three pairs of jeans, which she wears in constant rotation, even in summer. She doesn’t like her pasty white legs, feels too girlie in a skirt. At least that’s how I’d feel if I were her. I yank the jeans out a little too hard, and one pair drops onto the floor.
When I pick it up, something falls from the pocket. It’s a black paper sleeve wrapped with a plastic card inside. I recognize the logo even before I kneel down to retrieve it. The cursive B I saw all the time when I was in Paris, and the room number. 609. This is the key card to my hotel suite, the one I kept in my wallet, the very one that was stolen at Café de Flore.
It has to be—there’s a red stain from the day my lipstick opened in my bag and smudged onto the paper—and yet, it makes no sense at all. I sit down on the bed, struggling to catch my breath. Taylor was here and that card was lost—stolen—while I was in Paris. The only way Taylor could have this is if she was in Paris herself. But of course that can’t be. She was here. Home. The whole time. Or was she?
My phone rings, startling me. The name on the screen sends my body into panic mode, but I answer it anyway. I don’t think I have a choice.
“Detective Jackson,” I say.
I need to tell her. Taylor was in Paris. She followed me around. She stole my wallet, she… What? What did she do? But that’s for the police to figure out.
“Ms. Laurent. I’m glad to catch you. I have some important news.”
“Me too,” I say without thinking.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have…something.” I don’t know how to put it. Taylor was in Paris. How?
“Okay, well, if you don’t mind me jumping in. We had a call with the detectives in France this morning.”
My heart stammers in my chest. Clutching the key card in my other hand, I walk out.
“Ms. Laurent?”
“I’m here.”
“The investigation is complete. The French police have ruled your husband’s death an accident. An accidental overdose, most likely. The relatively small amount of sleeping pills found in his system makes it hard to conclude it was death by suicide. Though of course that’s still a possibility. I’m sorry to say we’ll never know for sure.”
I exhale quietly. “No, I guess we won’t.”
“To be honest, there are still aspects of this case that don’t sit right with me.”
“Yes!” I say without thinking.
This is when I tell her about Taylor, right? But the detective speaks again before I can cut in.
“So, I want to ask: why didn’t you tell us about the voicemail?”
“The voicemail?” I can’t contain the surprise in my voice. Did Darren speak to the police? But I never left him a voicemail.
“The one you left on your husband’s phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“The day after you returned from your honeymoon, you called your husband multiple times from your cell phone. Didn’t you?” the detective adds when I don’t respond.
My mouth goes dry. It must be a trap. Ishouldhave called him to check in, shouldn’t I? If the breakup was so amicable, I should have called to say I’d made it home and see how he was doing, the poor husband I left behind in Paris.
“I think I’m still in shock,” I say tentatively. “It’s all been very upsetting.”
“That’s understandable.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t even remember what I said. My memory is fuzzy.”
