Those people.
The Marteaus.
Words tangle in my mind and lodge in my throat, but I finally break some free. “How long has your sister been missing?”
“Five months.” Alice sits straight as a board, but then she collapses, slumping forward to rest her elbows on the table.
The server returns with my drink, her expression neutral but strained. I’m sure she’s picking up on the tension. It fills the air around us, thick as molasses.
She asks Alice if she’d like something, but Alice shakes her head.
After the waitress leaves, I sip the hot coffee and study the woman across from me. I can’t imagine what she wants from me.
“What did the police say?” I ask.
“The police.” She barks out a harsh laugh and shakes her head, her features hardening again. “The police didn’t follow up. They didn’t do anything at all. The Marteaus made sure of it. One word from them and the police shut me down. They accepted whatever those people said.”
“Which was what?”
Even her shrug reeks of anger. “That my sister left the mansion. Nothing else. And I have no proof of anything different.” Her jaw clenches, and she levels me with her stare. “But I know something happened to her.”
Brow furrowed, she starts twisting a ring on her finger. “The truth is, Rose and I weren’t speaking at the time. When she was living here in Paris. So I knew something was wrong when she called me from the apartment. It was a video chat, and I could tell she was freaked out. Scared.”
I squeeze the warm cup in my hand, thinking of the mansion’s disturbing reputation.
Maison de la Morte.
Alice leans in, lowering her voice as if she’s afraid we’ll be overheard. “Rose said she’d found a book in the apartment. Some kind of journal. She was waving it around the whole time she talked.”
Alice exhales, her breath shaky. “She wanted to tell me about something she’d read in it.”
“What?” I lean forward, mirroring her body language.
“I don’t know.” She jerks her face up, her wild eyes meeting mine. “She only said, ‘It’s so horrible. You won’t believe it.’ All of a sudden, she stopped and looked over her shoulder. Likeshe’d heard something. Maybe someone knocking at her door?” Another shrug. “She said she had to go but would call me back.”
Alice swallows, like she’s choking on emotion. “She never did.”
Needing to process what she’s saying, I take another drink of my coffee. Ten minutes ago, she was following me, stalking me. Now she sounds like the first episode of a true-crime podcast.
I need to parse out the details. “So you have no idea what she read in the journal?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t be sure it had anything to do with the Marteaus.”
“It must have. They wouldn’t let me into her apartment after she went missing. They wouldn’t even talk to me. Why wouldn’t they talk to me?” She reaches over and grabs my arm. “I’m telling you, they know something.”
“Okay, okay.” I shoot a glance at the waitress, longing for a third-party presence. Keeping my voice steady, I ask Alice, “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” she says, though she’s clearly not. She releases me and folds her arms into a tight knot. “The Marteaus told the police Rose left on her own, and it’s not their job to keep track of renters.”
It sounds exactly like something Chantal or Vincent would say, conceit dripping from every word. I doubt they concern themselves with anyone else’s problems, especially people they deem inferior. But that doesn’t mean they would hide information about a missing woman.
“I don’t know the family well,” I say, “so I’m not sure what I can do to help you.”
She goes still, her features tense as she holds my gaze. “There is something you can do. You’re on the inside. You’re in her apartment.”
She holds out her hand but stops just short of grabbing me again. “You can try to find the journal.” She’s talking faster now, excited at the prospect. “It’s dark blue, a navy color.”
