Hours have passed since it all came crashing down. Upon landing in London, we were greeted by a police car, its flashing lights making me feel like a deer caught in headlights. The Dubois family had flown in on a separate plane,leaving the French authorities to collaborate with the local police. An arrest warrant had been issued in my name, so they escorted us to the station. While we were in Bordeaux, a scandal involving the entire Dubois family had come to light: someone had tipped off authorities about the Club Montari.
The Dubois were involved in a major crime scheme… And I was, too.
“Don’t worry about Eloïse’s condition,” Officer Mariah tells me. “She lost a lot of blood, but the wound wasn’t fatal. She’s stable. I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear that.”
I exhaled.
“Yes, thanks. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Officer Alonso steps forward.
“Wait, kid. You don’t know who tried to kill Eloïse?”
“No, I’m sorry.” The words slip out, sharp and sudden.
The department head eyes Officer Alonso with curiosity, but doesn’t interrupt. Alonso offers me a smile, his demeanour too calm for the storm brewing in my chest, and somehow, it makes me angry.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. We have a confession,” he says, his hands settling on his hips, his sigh heavy. “Makes things a lot easier. It’s been a crazy morning.”
My heart stutters, then takes off in a frantic rhythm.
“Who was it?” I ask, tripping over my own words.
Officer Alonso looks for the police chief’s approval before speaking.
“Norman Plaskitt. I believe you’ve had the… pleasure of meeting him.”
I nod, but my brows knit together in confusion. “Are you kidding me?”
Gina had spent the entire afternoon chatting away withthe Dubois’ chauffeur. There’s no way it could’ve been him who tried to kill Eloïse. It didn’t make sense. Itcouldn’tmake sense.
But the stern, unflinching expression on Officer Alonso’s face tells me this isn’t some twisted TV prank. This is real. Cold, hard reality. My stomach tightens, and the room seems to close in around me.
“Plaskitt seemed to believe that Eloïse had killed her own mother,” the police officer offers as an explanation.
That doesn’t clarify my doubts.
“Why? Was it….?”
“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “The first thing we did was verify her alibi and cross-check the facts with everyone’s account.”
Then, like pieces of a puzzle snapping into place, it all clicks in my mind.
“The money,” I whisper.
Officer Alonso lets out a sigh.
“The money,” he repeats. Then he rubs his chin with his hand and turns around, letting Officer Horseface take over. Both of them look exhausted.
“Norman Plaskitt had seen that Eloïse had money in her purse,” the woman explains, “money that couldn’t have been hers, given the fact that she hasn’t…”
“She’s broke,” I say. I know this part. “It was my money. The money Eloïse had taken from Gina at the Club Montari.”
It’s my fault that Eloïsealmostgot killed.
I stifle a manic laugh that bubbles up, uninvited; exhaustion tugs at my eyelids, my head throbs with a dull ache, and I can’t shake the feeling that the whole weekend was just one elaborate, cruel prank.
A twisted game where Enzo was the one pulling the strings.
