“You see, that’s what strikes us as odd. You’d think something like the murder of a young man would stay with him forever. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. Yet he has. He can’t remember what happened. Can’t recall the details, and some of his answers were, shall we say, a little off,” I tell him.
“Off?” Valdemar furrows his brow.
“Yeah, off. So, we would like to know why that is. Why his memory of that day is so hard to retrieve when I’m sure you remember it like it was yesterday.”
His jaw clenches. Pierre shifts uneasily.
Then Una speaks, her voice not as strong as it normally is. “We just want to know if there’s something you might not have told Evangeline. Something that maybe you forgot.” She’s clearly scared that I’ve pushed Valdemar, a convicted murderer, and I’m afraid I have also, but for an entirely different reason.
“Do you value your life, Miss…?” Valdemar stares at Una, taking command of the room in the way only he can.
“Ligeia,” she answers.
“Ligeia.” He holds her gaze, and I can relate, as I know what it feels like to be held by him.
“Of course I do,” Una replies.
“And you, Pierre Zanthe.” Valdemar’s gaze shifts. “Do you value your life?”
“Yes,” Pierre answers with fear in his eyes.
“And you, angel—I know you don’t value yours, but I do. So, I’m telling the three of you to drop it.”
My blood runs cold.
“What happened on that night is exactly what the police report and the witness statements say, and that’s all you need to know. So, unless there’s anything else I can be of assistance with, I think this interview is over.”
“I didn’t think he would help us,” Una whispers loudly to me.
“Oh, I am helping you, Una Ligeia. I’m helping you all to stay alive,” Valdemar says.
“Thank you for your time,” Pierre says abruptly, rising from the sofa, clearly desperate to leave.
“Wait. I’m not done yet.” I grab hold of Pierre’s arm, my dream coming back to me.
The gun in my hand.
The gun was taken out of my hand.
The shot was fired while Valdemar’s arms were wrapped around my waist.
Both of his arms. Both of his hands.
His dream. His memory.
In his dream, I am him. I’m holding the gun. I’m the one who couldn’t pull the trigger until someone took the gun from my hand.
Hishand.
“You might not be willing to answer our questions, but that doesn’t stop us from answering them for you,” I say.
“Don’t.” Valdemar moves to the edge of the seat, his eyes boring into me, pleading with me not to go there. But I have to do this. I’ve lived with this for so long, and I came to him foranswers, but all he’s given me is fiction. It’s time to fill in the blanks.
“You were there that night. You held the gun to my brother’s head, and you tried to kill him. He begged you to, but you couldn’t do it, could you?”
“Angel.” He tries to sound stern, but his eyes are watering, the memory too fierce to overcome.
“You didn’t pull the trigger. Someone else did. And you took the fall just like everyone else took the bribe. All of you. Who would be worth that? Who has the power to buy so many voices? Who do you fear enough to lock yourself away for ten years for a murder you didn’t commit?”
