For the first time this morning, Una is speechless.
“We just want to ask you some questions,” I tell him.
“Is this going in the paper?” he asks.
“No,” I answer quickly, eyeing Una and Pierre, who nod in agreement. “This is something personal.”
“Then where would you like to do this? In the library?” He smirks.
“No,” I snap, my cheeks heating at the suggestion, the memory of what he did to me in there making me quiver. “Not the library.”
“Fine. The drawing room, then.” Turning, Valdemar leads us through a door to the left of the stairs.
“Why not the library?” Pierre hisses in my ear. “Is it haunted or something?”
“Yes. It’s haunted,” I tell him, glad of the lie he’s provided.
“Never mind the ghosts,” Una joins in. “You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do,angel.”
She delivers the endearment as if she’s a hissing cat, her words sharp. She’s upset. Of course she is. I’ve lied to her, keptthings from her, shut her out when she’s been there for me for the last five years. She’s bound to be hurting, and just like I do in the same situation, she’s lashing out at me.
Even during daylight, the house breeds darkness all its own as we’re led down a small hallway, eventually reaching a door that opens into a large drawing room.
Like the rest of the house, its décor is rich and threatening, with dark upholstery, bevelled edges, and polished mahogany. A grand piano sits by the window, the lid propped open, the stool pulled out slightly as if someone has just been playing.
Valdemar motions for us to sit on one of the many chairs and sofas in the room, all of them a deep navy brocade decorated with shimmery red embroidery and strategically placed around a fire that exudes warmth despite it not being lit.
I don’t trust myself or Valdemar’s hands, so, like teenagers facing the headteacher, Una, Pierre, and I squash onto a sofa, me in the middle. Valdemar takes the sofa opposite us, his huge frame casting a shadow over us.
“How can I help you?” Valdemar asks, his eyes settled on me.
When it appears as though Una and Pierre have lost their tongues, I answer. “We just want some answers to some questions about the night my brother died.”
My choice of words is purposeful. I don’t want to anger him into shutting down. I would probably have been better off having this conversation with him in private, but then I would still have had to explain things to Una, and I know what happens when I’m alone with Valdemar—no questions would have been answered at all, only new ones raised.
“I’ll try, but that depends on the questions,” he says.
“What happened that night at the casino?” I delve right in.
Valdemar eyes me with caution. “You know what happened.”
“I know what you told me. What I want to know is whatreallyhappened.”
“You don’t believe the reports?” He sits forwards, resting his elbows on his knees.
Pierre flinches next to me, and Una hovers on the edge of the sofa.
“You said yourself that there’s no truth in any of the witness statements.” Before he can react, I add, “And when I think back to our conversations, you’ve never said the words to me. Never admitted to pulling the trigger.”
Valdemar raises an eyebrow.
“Una spoke with Sergeant Psyche,” I tell him.
He scratches his chin. “How is he?”
“Old and retired. His memory is a little fuzzy.”
“I’m sure it is,” Valdemar says.
