The French Thief: An International Legacies Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  She has a placid look on her face, as though she’s heard the cry of innocence too many times to be moved by it. “I suppose there’s a case to be made for that, but really, with everything else, Brielle? Most would just suss it up to a moment of panic or not thinking straight. It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal has done something stupid.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” I say through gritted teeth.

  She has the tact to at least appear apologetic. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply that you were. I’m just pointing out what the prosecutor, judge, and jury are going to think.”

  I shake my head with growing despondency, looking off to the side in thought. “Go on.”

  “Then there’s the ID card.”

  The one thing I’ve refused to let my mind wander toward.

  “Yours was the only one used to both access the building that Sunday as well as the gallery. Both occurring at the time the security guards were too busy to notice since…someone called in fifteen food orders from various restaurants to show up around the same time. That bit I have to admit was pretty ingenious.”

  I turn to glare at her. “Not such a dumb criminal after all.”

  She gives me a direct look. “I’m not calling you dumb Brielle. I’m not even saying I think you’re guilty. But then, I’m naturally biased. I’m your attorney, and you have every incentive to tell me, of all people, the truth. Unlike some people I’ve represented, you’re smart enough to tell me the truth. So far you’ve maintained your innocence, and you know what? I believe you.”

  I perk up a bit at that.

  “But my opinion doesn’t mean, pardon my French, shit.”

  French. I almost laugh at the irony.

  At this point, there’s no getting around it. Exactly one person had access to my ID. One person knew my desk quite intimately. One person went out of his way to make the evidence as damning as possible—the cherry on top being that the food orders were all made to Brielle Christopher.

  One person knew what I’d be up to that Sunday.

  I was disappointed when Andrew called to say he couldn’t meet with me the next day after meeting Georgette as we had planned:

  “Nooo,” I protest, “That means I have no excuse not to go to spin class.”

  He laughs lightly. “What are you doing after your spin class? I may be able to meet with you later in the day.”

  “Georgette wants to meet up to talk. She fell asleep pretty quickly after our date.”

  “Ahh…be sure to put in a good word for me.”

  I smile into the phone. “Will do, but I somehow doubt you’ll need it.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end.

  “Andrew?”

  “Yes,” he quickly says in a distracted way. “Why don’t we make it Monday night instead?”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling slightly disappointed. “I look forward to it.”

  There’s another pause. “Goodbye, Brielle.”

  “Bye, Andrew.”

  That was the last I heard from him. At least now I know what he was up to.

  Bastard.

  Asshole.

  Motherfucking-fucker!

  The only part that doesn’t seem to make sense is destroying the painting. Our plan was to steal it. His original plan was to steal it. So why destroy it instead? And, more importantly, why frame me?

  “Brielle?”

  I pull out of my thoughts as my attorney leans in, giving me a piercing look. “You listening?”

  “Yes, yes,” I say, waving her off.

  “I get that this is overwhelming and upsetting, but I want you to be practical about this. This isn’t me going through the motions to take your money and clear my desk of another case without having to go to trial. This is me telling you that you won’t get a better deal than the one they’re offering. In the scheme of things, it’s not a bad one.”

  “Do you say that to all your innocent clients?” I say with a sardonic edge to my voice.

  She’s obviously used to worse since it has no effect what so ever. “I should point out that the maximum is five years, and trust me, they don’t like going to court, so they’re going to push for it. The only saving grace for you is that Bernard Gaultier apparently didn’t have it insured. Then you’d have two parties working against you.”

  “Wait…what?” This is the first bit of news that is actually new to me, thus my surprise. “Of course he had insurance.”

  She frowns and slowly shakes her head. “No. I’ve read through all the files, no mention of insurance.”

  “I know he had insurance because I’ve seen the paperwork.” Of course I have. One of the first things I did on the job was to go through everything I could get access to having to do with the painting.

  “Then either he canceled it, or he hasn’t filed a claim yet, which he wouldn’t do since part of the valuation from the insurance company would have been included in evidence.”

  “He didn’t cancel it,” I insist, feeling confused as hell.

  “Then maybe he just hasn’t filed a claim yet.”

  “Why would he wait?”

  “Too busy? Too wealthy to care? I don’t know Brielle, but that isn’t what we should be focused on here. Right now—”

  “No,” I say, standing up. “It has to mean something.”

  “Whatever it means has no bearing on your circumstances. He has the certification that it’s an authentic Chabat, he has the valuation from the art expert he first hired after buying the painting, he has the provenance. Basically, he has everything he needs to nail you to the wall, at least as far as the value of the painting. Even if it turns out not to be worth over $1500, the minimum for a Class D felony, you’d still be accused of destroying property. At best it’s a Class A misdemeanor which could still get you a year in prison.”

  I stop pacing and turn to her, wanting to argue my case but realize the futility. Instead, I sigh and sit down again.

  She gives me that sympathetic look and, as irrational as the thought is, I want to slap it off her face.

  “It’s time to think about biting the bullet, Brielle. You do your time, eighteen months in a federal prison—and believe me, I’ve seen worse—then, you get out and get on with your life.”

  “Whatever life that is. I mean, what kind of job could I even get? At least if I fight, I have a chance at something.”

  She stares at me as though I’m a five-year-old who has just asked if I can live on the sun. A sympathetic smile touches her lips. “Brielle, even if you don’t get a conviction, I doubt you’ll ever work in the financial industry again. These people at Gaultier Financial are out for blood, and this is your best chance of serving it up to them. Give them their pound of flesh and let them forget about it—forget about you.”

  “But how can I?” I plead, feeling my anger set in again. “When I did nothing wrong?”

  “Do you need me to go through the evidence again? If you were on a jury, what would you assume based on everything I told you?”

  “I’d assume I was being framed!”

  Her sympathy is waning, I can tell. The brow dented with concern has now leveled to one of impatience. “Really? Would you?”

  I just stare at her, not wanting to face the reality of the truth.

  She sighs. “I’m going to be brutal with you now, Brielle. I didn’t want to go there, but here it is, the cold hard truth. The fact is, you’re a black woman. That’s a strike against you. And yes, your past, your childhood, is going to come up in trial. Technically, it’s probably not allowed, but I know the prosecutor, and he’s pulled some shady shit in the past to get these little nuggets in the ears of the jury, even if it is overturned by the judge. As they say, once the genie is out of the bottle…”

  “Wait…are you talking about my mother? Because I was once in a group home all of a sudden I’m…what? Tainted? A statistic? One of those black people?”

  She looks at me as though I have just painted the picture that will be firmly planted i
n the jury’s head by the prosecutor, if it isn’t there already.

  “Take the deal, Brielle. Eighteen months is better than waiting for a trial, only to lose and get the max. You’re still young. When you get out, you’ll still be young. You’re twenty-seven now, so you’ll be twenty-nine?”

  I just nod.

  She snorts out a sarcastic laugh. “Frankly, I wish I could be twenty-nine again. That’s practically starting all over while you can still touch your toes.”

  I fail to see the humor in it. In fact, the only thing I feel is a cold hard rage, simmering to a boil in my veins.

  Eighteen months.

  I’ll almost be starting a brand new decade of life when I get out.

  It doesn’t matter. I could be eighty upon release, and I’ll still feel the same thirst for revenge.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not caving. I’m going to trial.”

  She sighs. “Brielle—“

  “No. I’m fighting this.”

  No way am I letting them win. Even if it is the maximum, at least I can say I went down swinging.

  And when I get out, I’ll get my revenge.

  Chapter Thirty

  Andrew

  She’s in the garden, tending to a plant that already has a decent looking set of tomatoes hanging from it.

  “Hello, Georgette.”

  She stiffens, recognizing my voice before lifting her head to make sure it’s really me. Anger seizes those blue eyes, slightly less vibrant than the last time I saw them. I imagine watching the woman you’ve always considered a daughter go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit would do that to a person.

  My only consolation is that Brielle still managed to get only eighteen months, mostly due to Gaultier not testifying or being especially helpful with the case.

  I can’t help but admire Brielle’s fight. She’ll be a force to reckon with when she gets out. And I fully expect to be her first target.

  Georgette squints one my way, trying to assess the situation before speaking.

  “You certainly have a lot of nerve showing up here.”

  “I know.”

  “If you’re looking for any absolution, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Not absolution,” I say, giving her a direct look. “More like…retribution.”

  Part II

  Elle & André

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Elle

  Georgette is dead.

  My eyes wander around the mausoleum housed at Green-Wood Cemetery. It’s a serenely beautiful atmosphere which doesn’t remotely reflect the morbidity one might expect from such a place. With glass walls that look out onto the koi pond and fountain outside, it has more of a spa-like feel to it. The rich mahogany shelves filled with urns and photographs make me feel more like I’m having silent, friendly conversations with the ghosts of the past rather than being haunted by them. Even the hushed stillness inside this small building with soft rugs and plush furniture speaks more to the silence of a private, light-filled library than a haunted house.

  It’s perfect for the woman who pretty much raised me—all the more so since she’s right next to her husband Frank, the man who also pretty much raised me. He died before all this mess started in the first place, but I’m sure they’d both have words to say about what I’m planning, though he’d probably add some groan-worthy joke just to lighten the mood.

  At least I don’t have to worry about money for a while. Georgette didn’t have much saved up, but what she had was left to me.

  My birth mother’s grave is one I won’t be visiting before I leave this city. Sheila Christopher has been dead to me for a long time.

  Georgette and Frank are dead.

  And now, Brielle is dead.

  Now that I think about it, coming here to say goodbye to the woman who passed away while I was in prison is rather fitting. Everything I ever loved about this city is dead. Hell, so are a few things I hated.

  In front of me, a photo of Georgette stares back with smiling blue eyes that belie the disapproval I know she’d harbor about me seeking out revenge on those who’ve wronged me, all the more so since she’s the reason I’m doing what I am.

  I was only one month into my prison sentence when her breast cancer sprung back to life with a vengeance. It took six months to finish its dirty work. Since she wasn’t “family,” I wasn’t given any consideration as far as going to her funeral. An estate attorney contacted me to tell me about the details, making sure she was laid to rest as she intended, next to her husband of almost fifty years.

  I hate that she was alone during those final months. If nothing else, a child’s duty is to be there for their parents at their deathbed. And I failed her.

  Because of one man.

  Andrew Mercier is the first person on my shit list.

  Bernard Gaultier is the second.

  By the time I ended up in prison, I had figured out that the painting was a fake. That’s why he hadn’t filed an insurance claim. Whoever had been paid off to authenticate it in the first place certainly couldn’t go up against a multinational insurance corporation who had a reputation to protect.

  Perhaps that’s why Andrew had destroyed it instead of stealing it. Slashing it certainly seemed a bit…aggressive for the cool customer I thought I knew. Which only proves the point—I don’t know Andrew Mercier.

  But I don’t need to know him to destroy him.

  I inhale, filling my body with the satisfaction of vengeance. It’s what’s kept me going for two years.

  And now…Paris awaits.

  I’m at the airport bar, sipping the wine I ordered as I stare down at the photo of me as Elle Patterson on the fake passport I’m using. I’m still recognizable, but the cheekbones are a little more pronounced, the eyes a little more lioness, the mouth a little more firmly set into a non-smile. My hair maintains the tiny, natural afro I got while serving my time in prison. I actually like it this way.

  I sigh and put away the damnable evidence of the first true crime I’ve actually committed. Even the wine can’t help the feeling I have that at any, moment a team of federal agents is going to storm the bar to drag me back to prison.

  The bruschetta I ordered is already starting to look a bit tepid, which does nothing for my lackluster appetite. I should have just ordered dessert. Just thinking about it settles both my stomach and nerves. My eyes fall to the menu beside me and immediately land on the chocolate cake.

  “Excuse me,” I say, getting the attention of the man behind the bar. “Can I get an order of the chocolate layer cake?”

  He simply nods and escapes somewhere to the back. I sip more wine and think about ordering coffee to go with it, then decide against it. I should sleep on the plane. I’ll need my energy and wits about me when I get to Paris.

  “I see you still have a sweet tooth.”

  The wine stalls on the way to my throat, my body unable to function enough to even swallow at the sound of that voice. I manage to force it through. Then, I bring the glass down, hard enough to elicit a clank so loud the eyes of the people nearest me cast a worried look my way.

  I ignore them.

  My entire focus—my entire universe has shifted, every atom now gravitating toward the man I turn to face.

  Andrew Mercier.

  I’ve heard that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Two sides of the same coin. The hate I’ve felt for this man for the past two years would leave the other side of that coin scribbled in arrow-pierced hearts and sappy love poems.

  It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s found me. I know better than anyone that he’s an expert at keeping tabs on me. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had spies inside prison watching my every move.

  “You have every reason to hate me,” he says, staring at me with those mesmerizing eyes that used to hold mine happily, blissfully hostage.

  Right now, I just want to scratch them out.

  I should say something—anything. Every vicious thought, vile indignity, viol
ent desire I’ve harbored toward him for the past year-and-a-half fills my head but won’t reach my tongue. That’s when I realize the saying is true. The man who once occupied my mind to the point I thought I could possibly fall in love with him, now occupies it in exactly the same way. It’s simply flipped to a different side of the coin.

  I’ll never be indifferent toward Andrew. I hate myself for that. I hate him even more.

  “I’ve come to tell you everything, the whole truth. When I’m done, perhaps you’ll understand why I did what I did. Despite what you might think, it was all for you Brielle, even the worst of it.”

  I want to laugh, but even that eludes me. The idea that there’s any excuse on Earth to explain away what he’s done is absurd.

  His jaw tightens but those eyes remain firmly connected with mine as he begins. “I suppose I should start by telling you who I really am.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  André

  “First, my real name is André Merchant, not Andrew Mercier.”

  “I don’t care who you are, because you’re dead to me.”

  If I saw the truth of those words reflected in her eyes, it would have killed me. But that’s not what I see at all. I’m very much alive to Brielle—now Elle Patterson—as is reflected by the venomous hate glaring back at me.

  For some reason, it encourages me. It means she’s been thinking of me as much as I have been thinking of her for the past two years.

  “I understand you must be hurt and angry and confused—”

  “No, you don’t. I’m more than angry, I’m…” She shakes her head and coughs a cynical laugh. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. I have nothing to say to you.”