“Lorelei ...” I paused, gulping, picking at my fingers. “My friend used to stop by often. She may have come by, I don’t remember.”
“I spoke with her.” He began writing quicker but didn’t elaborate.
“You did?” I nearly laughed. “And what did she say?”
“She had some interesting things to say about your whereabouts.”
“How long did you harass her before she agreed to play along in this petty investigation?” I watched his hand carefully; he stopped writing.
He placed his pen down, leaning back in his chair. “She volunteered this morning, actually.”
Caught you, liar.
I eased into my own seat, uncrossing my arms and leaning back, elbows on the arms of the visitors’ chair. “We don’t speak much anymore. Her testimony would be as good as snake oil.”
“I will need someone other than your husband to corroborate.”
“My sister, then. Félice and Cosette saw me leave.”
“But they didn’t see you in your home.”
“I don’t see why I would lie about going home.”
“Your husband seems to lie about going to his studio, so why not his wife lying about being home alone?”
I balled my hands in my skirt, a physical representation of my grip on my temper. I lifted my chin, raising my brow at him. I knew this game; it wouldn’t work.
“I appreciate your concern for my marriage and well-being, Mr. Hunt,” I said with the sweetest of smiles, “but I trust my husband wholeheartedly. He has odd hours, odd schedules. He is an artist.”
He chuckled as he folded his spectacles, tucking them into his vest breast pocket. “Are you aware that your husband comes from a troubled home? Several, in fact.”
“I don’t see how someone’s childhood is of any concern to their current life.”
He smiled at me. “That’s interesting that you say that, Petronille.”
He reached down to his drawer, which squeaked as it opened, and produced a file. He placed it on the table before him like he was about to unwrap a Christmas goose and eat it in front of me. He opened it and leafed through a page, then another, in no rush to share his insight.
“Violent outbursts. Evidence of antisocial personality. Unnecessary cruelty toward his peers and staff. Disordered sleep schedule. Threatening his foster family with a splintered yardstick. Threatening a nun in service at Saint Lucia’s.” He stopped, holding the papers up but out of reach. “It was severe enough to be evaluated by an alienist.”
I shifted in my seat, unsure how to defend the behavior. There had to have been a reason. Theremustbe. It didn’t sound like him at all.
“I will ask this once, and I need you to find it within yourself to answer honestly.” He tucked the folder back into his desk before settling. “Where was your husband the day of Vincent’s disappearance?”
“At his studio. Maybe until eight in the evening?” was all I could say with confidence. “His hours are unpredictable.”
“That’s all right, you are an honest woman, I appreciate any answers at all,” he assured me. “Do you know where he was on your wedding day?”
“At the wedding.”
“No”—he pulled up his notepad—“the papers detailed that your wedding was held privately in the afternoon.” He leaned in slightly. “Do you know where he was earlier that day?”
No, we met at our wedding,I wanted to say.
“I don’t know. It is bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding.” The answer was almost a sneer. “Why does it matter?”
“There was a disappearance of a couple.” He slid over a photograph. Two people in a portrait, of good wealth but not of good breeding. They seemed lovely, young.
“I’m sorry, I don’t see how this has anything to do with me.”
