"Nous vous amenons pour un cambriolage," he said.
A break-in.
My French wasn't great, but I caught the gist.
Mila's apartment.
"Wait," Mila said, stepping forward. "That's my apartment. But I didn't call you."
The officer glanced at her, then back at me. "Someone did. It is our job to bring him in."
Merrick.
The realization hit me like a cold blade between the ribs.
This was him. His next move. Not violence. Not a direct confrontation. Just a chess piece shifted to box me in.
Smart.
Fucking smart.
One of the officers approached, gesturing for me to lift my jacket. I did, slowly, revealing the pistol.
He removed it carefully, cleared the chamber with practiced efficiency, and stowed the rounds and magazine in an evidence bag. No rough handling. No unnecessary force.
Professional.
That was good. It meant this wasn't about me being a threat. It was procedural.
Which also meant Merrick had covered his tracks well enough that the cops didn't know they were being used.
"Can I come, too?" Mila asked, her voice tight.
The officer shook his head. "Non, mademoiselle."
I turned to her, catching her eyes. "Go to your apartment. The butler will find you."
She looked like she wanted to argue. But something in my expression stopped her.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Two officers gestured toward one of the cars. I walked, hands still visible, moving slowly so no one got jumpy.
As they opened the back door, I glanced over my shoulder.
Mila stood on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself, camera hanging at her side, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
Fear? Confusion? Anger?
All of the above, probably.
I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell her it would be okay. That this was just a misunderstanding. That I'd be back before she knew it.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Because I didn't know if any of that was true.
They loaded me into the back of the car—no cuffs, at least—and the door shut with a dull thud that felt heavier than it should have.
