Nibbling my thumbnail, I jitter my leg. I need to stay where I am. I might be on edge, jumping at every sound, but I’ll do what I did the last time I got scared. The night I readCarmillaand felt like I was being watched. I’ll bar the doors and check the windows, then lock myself into the bedroom to sleep.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe my distress over Mackenzie has messed with my head.
But I’ve learned too much to take any chances.
Lunging for my laptop, I check to see if GraveDanger is still online. When I see the little green light beside his name, I shoot off one more question.
Do you know the name of the girl from the party?
I don’t have to wait long.
Lina Ivarrson
Ivarrson. Sounds Nordic. Maybe Swedish?
As in a tourist who might have been in Paris alone. With no one to miss her.
Like Rose.
Thanks for your help.
I quickly send the message to GraveDanger before jumping over to a search engine. I type the name Lina Ivarrson and Bois De Boulogne, the park where she was found. Then I add Paris for good measure.
There aren’t many links to online publications, because the murder occurred before the invention of the internet, but I do find a true-crime blog.
Clicking on the link, I pull up the post and copy the text. Then I paste the words into a translation site. The English makes it easier to skim the paragraphs, and I don’t need to read far before the words I’m looking for leap from the screen.
The victim was identified as Swedish tourist Lina Ivarrson, a source close to the case revealed.
A sensation of crawling skitters down my back.
I was right. A tourist.
I read on, paying closer attention and looking for any specifics that might corroborate GraveDanger’s information.
Why was the body exsanguinated before being abandoned in one of Paris’s busiest parks?
“Holy shit.” I slap a hand to my mouth, still scanning the text. The blogger writes that Lina Ivarrson was last seen on the bridge, that the witness’s name is undisclosed, and the case was never solved.
But then that’s all. The post ends on a cliffhanger. No mention of suspects, or a party, or Maison Marteau.
Is this evidence of corrupt law enforcement being bought off by the Marteaus?
Or is it nothing more than an online conspiracy theory?
Rubbing my forehead, I drop the laptop on the couch cushions and pick up my phone. Still no word from Alice.
I’m too disturbed to sit still, my body and brain both buzzing with alarm. Trying to figure out my next move, I cross my arms and stare at the fireplace. The hearth is an empty hull, blackened and coated with soot.
Then my eyes travel to a small round table, theCarmillabook resting on the shiny wood. The book I found on the red chair downstairs. The one I convinced myself had been there all along.
But it hadn’t.
Someone came into the apartment and left it for me to find.
But why?
I’ve known something was off about this mansion for a while, but I didn’t want to believe it. Now all the stories and hearsay are coming together, like photos and strings on a murder board.
