Page 39 of Without a Clue

Turns out, I’m not half bad.

I tell him the questions he was planning to ask, including the information he was trying to squeeze out of me, and answer them in turn. I can anticipate what facts from my words he wants to pull out and write down, and sure enough, I’m right 90 percent of the time.

Isn’t it incredible how fiction can mirror reality?

Even Carragan begrudgingly gives me a little respect in the form of tiny nods as he writes things down. Or was this his plan all along?

Thirty minutes goes by in conversation. Forty-five. An hour. Why am I different than everyone else here? Does he actually think I am the one who did it?

“Tell me, Miss Dupont, what would you have to gain from Hugh’s death in this instance?” Carragan says eventually, cutting in.

I frown. “Nothing. I’m out of a job.”

“Not nothing entirely, though, is it? You are well known for being the assistant to Hugh Griffin. A lot of people are desperate to know about the inner workings of a successful man like that. You were close enough to touch the oven itself, if you catch my drift.”

“I could go out and find another assistant job, if that’s what you’re saying. But that’s not a perk. At best, that’s a parallel move.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m sure lots of authors would love to have the assistant of Hugh Griffin for themselves. The keeper of secrets. The front-row viewer of his success. Perhaps you’ve learned things from him you could go forth and share with others. Perhaps you could use those secrets to propel your own writing success.”

“My writing success?” I say with a laugh. “I’m not going out to have my own name on a shelf, and I definitely don’t need to kill anyone to begin writing. The only thing I’ve learned from Hugh was that he was a mastermind with skills I’ll never possess.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s all you learned. Of all the people I’ve interviewed, you come out the one most capable of getting away with murder.”

Me?

Me?

“He was bluntly stabbed in the back and now is stuck on a ship,” I reply curtly. “This isn’t mastermind work. If it was up to me, I’d have a timed alibi, use foxglove to mimic a heart attack, and be the last person to walk in on him dead this morning. A stab in the back is crude work.”

Carragan’s brows shoot up. He scribbles something down.

Right.

Mental note: Moving forward, avoid sounding like Ricky.

You are a dumb assistant. You get confused about which paper to put in the printer and scroll for hours at your desk. Be. Dumb.

“And you say you share an apartment with two other roommates on 102nd Street between Broadway and West End Avenue? Must be tiring, taking the subway all the way to Tribeca day in and day out. Doing all that heavy lifting for Hugh just so that he can live among the cobbled streets with the stars—”

“Hugh loves the subway and spends—spent—four out of seven days of the week sleeping on an old couch in his office.” I frown deeper. “Look, Mr. Carragan, let me cut to the chase on this. I had nothing to gain from this. Nothing. Jealousy didn’t get me. I had $8,615 in my savings account before this happened, and $8,615 now. I will continue to take the subway. I happen to like my roommates. I wasn’t in love with Hugh. I didn’t hate my job to the point of putting myself in danger either. I never killed ants with a magnifying glass as a child for fun. And I have never had so much as a speeding ticket. I am just the lowly assistant to an incredible person, and happened to be the unfortunate first-person witness to a terrible tragedy.”

Carragan purses his lips.

Shuts his notebook.

Grabs his belt buckle and adjusts it as he stands.

“Seems you got it all figured out then, Miss Dupont.”

“I have nothing figured out. I just know I didn’t do it. And I’m tired of this conversation.”

I follow him to the door. The clock on the bedside table now reads 8:30 p.m. The man has a particular ability to wear people down until they have no civility left. I suppose that’s his aim, and in that sense, I have to give him credit where credit is due.

He may be irritating, but he’s irritating with purpose.

He pulls the door open, and when one foot is out in the hallway, he turns.

Pauses.