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Final Message
Zeno
“Come in.”
François entered my office. “There’s a letter addressed to you,MonsieurZeno.”
“You can leave it right there.” I stopped typing on my laptop and chin-nodded to the corner of my desk.
I decided to work from home to keep an eye on my wife. She was having a field day since her school burned to smithereens yesterday. I wanted to be in close quarters in case she needed anything.
He cleared his throat and deposited the letter and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “MadameDarla made cookies. She asked me to bring them to you while you worked.”
Heat warmed my insides pathetically and I could not stop the stupid grin from overtaking my face. “Thank you, François.”
He gave me a smile and said, “You seem happier than I’ve ever seen you. Like you’ve found peace.Je suis content pour toi.”
He was right.
For the first time in thirty-four years, I had found peace.
A twenty-seven-year-old high school principal with a prissy front and an affinity for tweed and sexy heels, who spent her time writing romance novels and championing young girls to be the future leaders of tomorrow, who barely saw her own beauty but was so quick to remind others of theirs, who was so tender-hearted but rarely allowed anyone to see past her mask, was my sanctuary.
Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined Darla Ivy Hill.
The chocolate chip cookies barely looked soft and held a crispness when I bit into one. Darla saying she could bake these ‘without burning them’ was obviously bullshit. She’d missed the timer.
I didn’t care, though. I’d eat anything my wife made for me.
After François left, I plucked the letter and noticed my name was dotted in black ink.
There was no return address and everything about its presentation screamed inconspicuous. Dread turned in time with the cogs in my watch, ticking, ticking, ticking as I sliced under the tab with a letter opener.
A message fell out.
Followed by another joker card.
It’s too bad she didn’t burn to death.
Violette could have had a friend in hell.
All the rage I kept bottled now shook through me like an earthquake.
I launched my decanter of whiskey against the wall with a growl. Golden brown liquid spilled over the surface and bits of glass splattered over the wooden floor.
My suspicions were confirmed.
The fire at St. Victoria wasn’t an accident.
Antoine Toussaint was responsible and he must have tampered with St. Victoria’s surveillance cameras so nothing could be traced back to him.
And my wife would have burned alive if she hadn’t been saved by a Samaritan.
A new heaviness settled over me. It made me feel like the little boy who used to get shoved into closets by his sick, neglectful parents. I paced in my office, loosening my tie and levelling my breathing.
With the last message, Pierrot confirmed his identity.
Violette’s name stared at me like a gibe.
