This can’t be real ... no, it must be a sick dream. I am ill, I am asleep, it must be the fever.
I crumpled it, tossing it aside. Pressing my palms into my eyes as if to will the news away; it was a prank and not something printed across every paper in the city.
“Petronille Kamenev?” The gruff voice spoke behind me as if to clear his voice.
“Yes?” I frowned, turning to see not only Mr. Hunt but two uniformed men from his office. “What is this about?”
“Your presence is requested at the station.”
“Am I under arrest?” I couldn’t hold my voice, which wavered at the very words. My throat closed up, threatening to choke me, not caring if it was suicide.
“I can certainly do that, if you’d like,” he said as if in a somber joke. “I’d rather not give the press any photos of you in cuffs. What do you say? I just have a few questions down at the station.”
The commissioner was a poor actor. Despite his words, he was giddy about it all. His hand fiddled impatiently with the cuffs at his side as he pretended to be a patient and merciful man. In reality, he loved this. Like one who hunts for sport, not for sustenance.
I smoothed my skirt, stepping down from the front of my townhome and back onto the street.
Even with ill intentions, he was correct. I couldn’t afford the bad press.
“Coffee? Water?”
“Tea?”
“No can do.” Mr. Hunt shook his head. “Water, then?”
I blew a frustrated breath from my nose, crossing my arms as I leaned back in the chair.
Mr. Hunt stalked over to his desk, sitting comfortably as he interlaced his fingers and propped up his elbows. “Thank you for coming down here without a fuss.”
“Right, because you gave meso manyalternatives.”
“Mrs. Kamenev”—the name was awkward in his mouth, as he was chewing enough that I barely recognized who he was addressing—“where were you the day of Vincent Carlisle’s disappearance?”
“I already answered this!” I huffed. “I was home.”
“I understand, we are just doing our due diligence,” he said sincerely, but I could feel something coming on. He glanced down at his notepad, his woolen brows clenched together. “You said you were at home?” He glanced up without moving his face back to mine.
I stared back. My breath held hostage as I thought, as if all oxygen must be used to remember.Damn it, remember.
“Yes,” I said slowly.
He pursed his lips, nodding as he pulled the notepad closer. “When I first visited you, you said you were at your sister’s.”
“Y-yes, that’s where I was that morning. You didn’t specify a time,” I replied carefully.
“Was that Félice’s home or Cosette’s?”
“Cosette, we were having tea. She asked for biscuits, she has been craving them throughout her pregnancy,” I lied, hoping that if asked, Cosette would just assume it was correct that the event was a couple days earlier.
“So when were you home?”
“I came home after.”
“Did you leave your home later in the day?”
“No.”
He nodded, pausing to reach over for his rounded spectacles. They sat crooked on his face as he produced a pen from his pocket and wrote something down on the pad. “Can anyone confirm you went home?”
