I stare at Valdemar, the man who I thought had ruined my life, the man who I now see lost his own life as much as I lost mine.
“Who pulled the trigger, Valdemar? Because I know it wasn’t you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Guys,I think we should leave, like, now,” Pierre says, pulling his sleeve out of my grip. “I, for one, don’t want to know any of this and am going to pretend I was never here, as I have a date at the weekend, and I intend to make said date.”
“But what about—” Una begins, but Pierre cuts her off.
“What about ending the week in a body bag? No, thanks. You heard what the guy said.” He gestures towards Valdemar, speaking as though he can’t hear him. “Does he look like a guy you want to disagree with? He told us to drop it. Now let’s do just that and get the hell out of here.”
Una glances at Pierre and then at me.
“You coming?” she asks, her shoulders dropping in defeat.
Tearing my gaze from Valdemar, I blink at Una. “You guys go.”
She reaches for me. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“She won’t be alone,” Valdemar cuts in.
“And that’s my worry,” Una tells him.
“For God’s sake, Una, can we just leave already?” Pierre steps forwards, gesturing to the exit.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine,” I tell them, staring at Valdemar.
I can feel Una’s uncertainty, the internal tussle with herself about whether to leave me here with a convicted criminal. He may not have murdered my brother, but he has murdered others.
“If anything happens to her, I swear to God…,” Una hisses at Valdemar, not finishing her proclamation.
“I can assure you, she’ll be safe here. I, however, might not be.” He smiles at her. “I’ll show you both out.”
He leads them to the door, and I’m left alone, the stillness of the drawing room wrapping itself around me.
Savouring this moment before Valdemar returns, I contemplate what I’ve just learned.
Someone shot my brother.
But it wasn’t Valdemar.
From his reaction to my guessing game and what I saw in his dream, I know he tried. He held the gun aloft and aimed. But he didn’t pull the trigger.
So who did?
Rising, I pace the floor, wishing the fire was lit so I could ponder against the backdrop of its flames like Sherlock Holmes or some other famous detective on the hunt for a killer.
The obvious answer is Adolphe Fortunato. He was the only other man of influence there, a man with enough connections in this city to pull the strings. Ed knew Fortunato planned to kill him, condemning him to a slow and painful death of being bricked up behind a wall while still alive like so many other people who had crossed him. But then why would he shoot him? Did he take the shot when he saw Valdemar falter and then insist that Valdemar take the blame? That could be the case. What other possible solution is there?
“It was Adolphe Fortunato, wasn’t it?” I fire the question at Valdemar as soon as he returns.
He closes the door softly, his face grave, his colour drained. “As much as I want to tell you everything, angel, I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” I ask.
“Can’t.”
“Why? Because I might die?” I suggest.
