Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  “I didn’t kill Camille or your father.” Could Gideon even hear her, or had her voice disappeared into the chasm of suspicion between them? “I have no idea how her purse got in my pocket. The police . . . Detective Turner . . . he said Camille’s evening bag was missing from her house.” Useless words. Of course the purse would be missing if Natalie had stolen it when she’d murdered Camille.

  Felicia had admitted to being at Camille’s the night she’d died. Had Felicia killed Camille, taken the purse . . . But when could she have put it in Natalie’s pocket? And why would she do that?

  “This is the first time I’ve worn this coat since Camille died,” Natalie said, wishing Gideon would speak instead of wordlessly observing her, hoping she’d fumble her way into a confession. She focused on the sparkling purse in his hand, Camille’s purse, the purse she’d bragged about while they’d sat on the pier at Beau Lac, the purse she’d been excited to show off to Natalie at Maison du Canard, the purse Lacey Egan had made.

  The purse Felicia thought identified the assassin. Camille as an assassin and Natalie as her sidekick; Natalie then killing Camille on Chapman’s orders . . . killing Camille, murdering her closest friend . . . Did Gideon believe that? If she had murdered Camille, why would she carry her purse around? Was it a trophy? Penance? A subconscious desire to get caught?

  Hysteria built inside Natalie. She wanted to grab the purse and clutch it to her chest as though Camille’s soul were inside and she could summon her like a genie, babbling questions and wishes for the gift of time travel so she could prevent Camille’s murder. Gideon could stand and watch her disintegrate, then call the police to haul her to the hospital. Turner and Bartholomew would visit her in the psych unit and ask questions about the purse, about Felicia’s accusations, about wads of cash in Dante’s filing cabinet, labeled for Natalie—

  The cash. The letter. Turner had asked if Camille might have had the letter with her, if it might be in the missing purse.

  Natalie managed a coherent sentence. “Open the purse.”

  “Why?”

  “There might be a letter in there to me. Camille said she had one, and the police didn’t find it when they searched her house.”

  “Why would Camille have a letter to you in her purse?”

  Explaining would take more patience than she had; she wanted to screech at him to just open it. But she shouldn’t ask him to handle the purse more than he already had. If there were fingerprints on it, he’d already smeared some of them.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I’ll call the police.” She reached for her own purse where she’d set it on the carpet.

  Gideon sprang toward her, sending another slug of adrenaline into Natalie’s already-overloaded system. He snatched her purse and jumped back.

  Natalie raised her hands and tried to breathe deeply and steadily. “I was reaching for my phone, not a gun. You call the police, then. I don’t care who does it. And you’re welcome to search my purse.”

  Gideon set both Natalie’s and Camille’s purses on the coffee table, opening neither of them.

  Natalie lowered her hands to her lap and interlocked her fingers, keeping her hands in plain view. “I have a business card from Detective Turner, the lead detective on the case. But it’s in the pocket of my slacks, and I assume you don’t want me to reach for it.”

  “Do you usually carry his card around?” Gideon’s voice was low, falsely neutral. Whatever emotions he was feeling, he didn’t want to show them.

  “He and his partner visited me this evening,” Natalie said.

  “Why?”

  At this point, she didn’t care what he knew. At worst, new information could make her sound incrementally guiltier than she already appeared, and what did that matter? “When they were searching Camille’s house, they found a manila envelope in her husband’s filing cabinet, a cabinet Camille hadn’t gone through since his death. The envelope was filled with thousands of dollars in cash and had my name written on it. I have no idea where the money came from or why the envelope had my name on it. It was written in Camille’s husband’s handwriting. Dante Moretti died about eighteen months ago.”

  “An envelope of cash.”

  “Yes.”

  “This isn’t the letter you were asking about.”

  “No. Please call the police.”

  Gideon took his phone out of his pocket. “I’m calling Felicia.”

  Natalie wanted to lie on the couch. Or rest her head on her knees. Or start crying, or throw up on Gideon’s carpet. “Even if you think I’m the killer, you know she’s not stable right now. She’s alone in a hotel five hours away, and you’re going to call and warn her that all her secrets are going to the police?”

  “She won’t do anything rash . . .” Scowling, Gideon lowered his phone. “This is ridiculous. I can’t just throw her to the wolves. I owe it to my dad . . . He adored her . . . After Mom died, he was devastated, and Felicia . . . ” His expression turned decisive. “I’ll go get her, talk to her face-to-face. I’ll let her know it’s time to report everything.”

  Natalie felt preternaturally cold, her face chilling the air around her, her linked hands freezing together. “Am I coming with you? And if so, am I riding in the passenger seat or tied up in the trunk so I can’t make a break for it?”

  Gideon grimaced but didn’t answer. She doubted he’d come up with any plan for what to do with suspected-murderer Natalie if he wanted to delay calling the police until he could meet with Felicia.

  “One more thing to consider,” Natalie said. “You should . . .” She paused, trying to remember what she’d wanted to say. It was difficult to connect and verbalize her thoughts. Something about bribery. Chapman. Controlling the police. “If Felicia’s theories are correct, Chapman owns the police or has at least part of the force on his payroll. I doubt there’s anything you can say that will persuade her it’s a good idea to go to them.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Even if she weren’t afraid that Chapman is bribing them, she’s admitted to breaking and entering and threatening Camille the night she died. When you tell her you’re reporting this, she’s not going to handle it well. She’ll get angry. She may panic. Be careful and be prepared to stay with her until the police arrive.”

  “I’m not planning to summon the NYPD to her hotel. I’ll bring her back—” He stopped.

  Natalie didn’t urge him to state what she could see in his face: if Felicia didn’t cooperate, he had no idea what he’d do.

  Gideon sat in the middle of the couch, closer than before. She doubted it was a sign of trust; he wanted to be close enough to tackle her if she pulled a knife.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  The compassion in his voice crashed against her self-control, cracking it. “No,” she said, sinking her fingernails into the backs of her hands. Shedding tears in front of Gideon was not going to happen. “But neither are you.”

  “You look bad. Seriously, do I need to call the paramedics?”

  “No. I’m calling the police. Now. There’s nothing you can do to make this easier for Felicia. If you don’t want me touching my purse, bring me my phone.”

  “Wait.” The word was anguished but absent; he was doing last-ditch analysis, not fully listening to her.

  She shifted forward on the couch. “Bring me my phone, or I’ll get it myself.”

  He held up a hand. “Take it easy. I’ll call.” He took his phone out of his pocket. His face was cement-gray; if she appeared as sickly as he did, no wonder he was talking about paramedics.

  “You know you might get arrested,” he said.

  She nodded but didn’t let his words sink in. She couldn’t think about that or about anything else. One step at a time.

  He looked up the number, tapped it into his phone, and switched the setting to speakerphone so Natalie could listen.

  A friendly female voice answered the call. “Ohneka Police Department, this is Tasha; how may I help you?”

  “
This is—” Gideon shifted and held his phone in both hands. “My name is Gideon Radcliffe. I have information about the murder of Camille Moretti.”

  * * *

  “I didn’t kill Camille.” Lacey punched the air with this statement, no warning, no warm-up. Jonas’s full spoon tipped. Butternut squash soup splashed the table.

  Lacey couldn’t restrain a grin, even though smiling seemed insensitive to Camille. She’d done it. Said plain, stark words that stated plain, stark truth.

  “I didn’t kill Camille,” she repeated. “You think because I was stalking her, I killed her. I heard you lying to the police for me. You don’t need to lie. I didn’t kill her.”

  Jonas set his spoon in his bowl and reached across the table to take her hand. “Baby, stay calm.”

  “I am calm. I did drive past her house the night she died, but I didn’t stop there. I didn’t go inside. I never went inside Camille’s house at all, ever. Just her garage.” How strange that she could talk about her stalking like it was a normal topic instead of horrible and humiliating. She knew she was blushing, but she didn’t feel a frantic compulsion to run away or change the subject.

  “I went to see Dr. Marsh today,” Lacey added.

  “Lacey!” His hand clamped around her wrist. “I told you not to talk to her. I told you not to leave the house.”

  “I did anyway.” Lacey wanted to look him in the eyes but ended up focusing on his jaw instead. Close enough.

  “What did you tell her?” Jonas asked.

  “Everything. That you thought I’d killed a woman and I didn’t think I had, but I wasn’t sure.”

  Jonas swore under his breath. “What did she say?”

  “She pointed out that it was your suspicion that got me questioning myself. I didn’t think I killed Camille until I realized you thought so. That’s where I got confused.”

  “You can’t be sure what you did. You’re messed up.”

  “I know I am. But I didn’t kill her. There’s no evidence that I killed her.”

  “Baby.” He released her wrist and intertwined his fingers with hers. “There is evidence.”

  “My notebook? I didn’t say anything in there about wanting to hurt Camille.” She bit her lip, hoping he’d confirm that.

  He didn’t. “You were out of your mind the night she died,” he said. “You’re not responsible for anything you did.”

  “I wasn’t that out of it. What evidence is there that I killed her?”

  “Honey, we don’t want to talk about that. If you’ve forgotten, I don’t want to remind you. It’s better if you don’t have those pictures in your head.”

  Uncertainty chiseled at her flimsy self-confidence. “What’s the evidence? What if the police—”

  “They won’t find it. It’s safe. You’ve got to listen to me, let me help you. I know you like Dr. Marsh, and that’s great, but now’s not the time to see her. You need to cancel any future appointments.”

  “I don’t have any future appointments,” Lacey said. “There was a problem today.”

  Urgency spiked in Jonas’s voice. “What problem?”

  “I didn’t tell her Camille’s name, but when I told her about . . . about the stalking, she figured out who I was talking about. She knew Camille. They were friends, so she had to stop the session.”

  Jonas gripped her hand with both of his, all but crushing it between his palms. “What do you mean stop the session?”

  “She said it was a conflict of interest, her knowing Camille. That it wouldn’t be right for her to continue as my therapist. But she recommended another therapist, one she said is really good, and she’ll contact her for me.” Lacey didn’t add that she hadn’t yet given Dr. Marsh the go-ahead to make the call. It had taken her all afternoon to decide she did want to meet with this new psychologist.

  “A conflict of interest?” Jonas rubbed her fingers. “You don’t realize what she was saying. She was saying that counseling a murder suspect is beyond her scope.”

  “She didn’t say I was a murder suspect.”

  “Did she say you were innocent?”

  “She . . . well . . . we didn’t have much time because she had to stop the session early—”

  “Because she was scared. That therapist she’s referring you to will be a police psychologist. Baby, she’s trying to get you to turn yourself in.”

  A fissure split the decision she thought she’d made. Dr. Marsh hadn’t said she thought Lacey was innocent. No matter what, she knew Lacey was guilty of stalking and scaring her friend. She wouldn’t want Lacey to get away with that. Was she trying to trick her into giving herself away? She had told Lacey to go to the police.

  “I asked you to stay home because I want you to be safe,” Jonas said. “See why I was worried?”

  “You’re the one who made me go see Dr. Marsh in the first place.”

  “I thought you were stressed out and needed someone to tell you how to feel better. I didn’t know you were doing dangerous stuff that could get you locked up.”

  “I didn’t kill Camille!”

  “It’s okay, baby. I’ll take care of you. You’ll listen to me now, right? You’ll stay away from shrinks and cops, and you’ll keep out of sight?”

  Lacey wriggled her hand, trying to pull it free. She didn’t want to be taken care of for something she hadn’t done.

  It’s my fault. She’d done so many awful things to Camille that no wonder Jonas thought . . .

  What evidence did he have? Was it more than the notebook? Should she demand that he tell her? Did she want to know?

  It’s better that you don’t have those pictures in your head. What kind of pictures? Sickening, nightmare pictures.

  “Just do what I ask, and you’ll be fine.” Jonas released her hand and started eating his soup.

  Lacey hid her hands under the table so he couldn’t grab them again. The evidence must be in her notebook—at least Jonas thought it was evidence, but maybe he was reading dangerous things into it out of worry for her. She needed to read it again herself to see if she’d written any violent threats toward Camille. If she’d written awful things she didn’t remember—if she’d done awful things she didn’t remember—she needed to pay for that. She couldn’t murder a woman and hide unpunished.

  “Eat your soup,” Jonas said. “You need nourishment.”

  She fumbled to lift her spoon. “I want my notebook back. I told you that before.”

  “Don’t worry about the notebook. The police won’t get their hands on it.”

  “It’s mine. I want it back. You don’t have the right to keep it from me.”

  “Baby, you don’t need it. Reading all those things about Camille would upset you.” He gave her a soothing smile that made her want to claw him. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  Chapter 22

  Natalie shut her car door and watched Gideon step out of his car, parked a few slots away from hers in the lot at Chapman Development. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him after their visit to the police department last night. When Detective Bartholomew had finished interviewing her and she’d left, she’d seen Gideon’s car still in the lot. She hadn’t dared call him later to find out how things had gone. She’d known he’d be raw from betraying Felicia’s secrets to Detective Turner, she’d had no idea what his current opinion was on her own guilt, and she’d been so drained she hadn’t had the energy to do anything except fall asleep.

  “Hey.” Gideon approached her, a leery, questioning expression on his face. “How did it go last night?”

  “I’m not out on bail, in case you’re wondering,” she said. “They didn’t arrest me.”

  “I didn’t think they did.”

  “Do you think they should have?”

  “No.”

  His decisive response brought a reprise of the relief she’d felt last night when Bartholomew had told her she was free to leave. “Thank you.”

  “You decided to do lunch here too, huh?” he said.

  “Yes. Bob t
old me he’d invited you. I wondered if you’d come.”

  “Summoned me is what he did. Through his secretary. Didn’t tell me why though.”

  “I assume you don’t think he called you here to shoot you.”

  “I figured he’d be sneakier about it if murder were his goal. But I wore my Kevlar plaid shirt and tactical Dockers just in case.”

  They stood facing each other. Gideon had gray circles under his eyes, and Natalie doubted he’d gotten more than an hour or two of sleep last night.

  “Have you talked to Felicia?” she asked.

  “No, but Detective Turner called me late last night. Felicia’s on a psychiatric hold. Apparently, when the police confronted her in her hotel room, she . . . fell apart.”

  “I’m sorry.” Natalie didn’t admit she was grateful to hear that Felicia had hit the point where she couldn’t conceal her torment and would—Natalie hoped—have to face the reality that she needed help. “I hope this leads to healing for her.”

  Gideon ground a twig under his heel, spreading bits of bark across the asphalt. “I’ve never seen Felicia lose it. She’s always levelheaded. But Turner said she was screaming about how Chapman controls the town and has a squad of assassins and you’re one of them and you killed my father and you killed Camille and you’re controlling me, turning me into your zombie serf.”

  “Zombie serf?”

  “Okay, those aren’t her words, but that was the idea. Brainwashing me, getting me to do your bidding, including betraying her. It was complete breakdown.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I feel like a fool for muddling around instead of getting help for her the instant she started talking about a mysterious woman tampering with Dad’s ladder.”

  “You’re not a fool—and you’re new in town. The idea of Bob Chapman as a vengeful, evil man wouldn’t sound as strange to you as it would to people who know him. And how could you know whether or not Camille and I had dirty secrets? You’d never met her, and you’d barely met me.”

  “I still should have known better.”

  “At least you were able to connect with Felicia, and you did your best. I didn’t know how to get through to her at all.”