That’s why her writing desires had changed. She was changed. She was forever changed.
With a simple prayer of forgiveness to the families, she created a new world around their worst nightmare.
THE HEADLINES ARE GRABBING
Here’s irony for you.
Sutton, in the grips of a sudden creative urge, flipped off the television before the story of the lovers’ murders finished playing, and so missed what would have been a very important moment in her life.
The story France24 followed with, rare for a European television station, was about the sudden disappearance of an American woman. A writer. Normally this foreign news wouldn’t be worthy of coverage, but the woman was the wife of a celebrated and much-loved author who was very, very popular in France. Not only did his book sell well in French-speaking territories, but he’d once written the scripts for a hugely popular television show that was still in syndication.
She missed the headline: Author’s Wife Missing.
She missed the delicious broadcast innuendo that followed: author is suspect in wife’s disappearance.
She missed the fabulously replayable footage of her gorgeous husband standing in the middle of the street in front of their house, pale and wild, screaming at the reporters while rain hammered him and made his thick hair plaster to his head.
She missed the still shot of him flipping the bird as he entered the house.
She missed the subsequent footage of a towheaded blonde cop entering her sanctum.
She missed the interviews given by her best friends, the people she hadn’t trusted with the truth of what was happening in her world.
She missed it all.
If she hadn’t missed it, what would have happened differently? Would she have realized she was truly loved? That she’d caused worry and concern throughout a community, and now, the world? Would she have packed her things and gotten on a plane immediately?
If only she had. If only she had.
RISE AND SHINE
Sutton woke hard, alone, unsure for a moment where she was. Her back hurt, and her mouth was dry. The sun was shining outside, puffy white clouds meandering through the bluest sky she’d ever seen. She raised her head, the room coming into view. The picture window in front of her showed the black metal lines of the Tour, which centered her.
Paris. She was in Paris. She was Justine Holliday, from Hollywood, Florida. She was writing a memoir. She’d met a handsome young man and had a fun few days of pleasure. Just what the doctor ordered.
So why didn’t she feel all romantic and gooey inside?
Probably because she’d stumbled on a nasty crime scene and all the magic of Paris was lost to her now.
She peeled herself up off the desk. She’d fallen asleep with her head on the keyboard. She was stiff and sore and headachy. Her stomach was still queasy. She must be coming down with something. She probably picked it up on the plane. Great.
She drank a glass of water, stretched a little. A croissant wouldn’t go amiss. She knew she had to be careful with the carbs; she’d turn into a house if she didn’t watch her diet, but right now, with an upset stomach and a stiff neck, the prospect of warm, flaky dough drenched in butter and jam sounded heavenly.
She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, put on a pair of dark sunglasses. She took the stairs down, for the exercise. Outside, the air was crisp as if it had rained overnight and washed away the stickiness of the pollen, but the streets weren’t wet, and the air was still suffused with floating yellow fairies.
It was a beautiful morning.
The café on the corner had a small set of tables in front of their windows with a red-and-white-striped awning overhead. It was so French. So perfect.
She was being ridiculous. She needed to stick with the program. She’d planned this for weeks and now she was here and she needed to stop being a wishy-washy child and roll with the decisions she’d made. This was what she wanted. Paris. Freedom.
Yes.
Suddenly ravenous and filled with love for her new life, she purchased two croissants with strawberry jam and sat at the table, drinking cool water from a small glass. The waiter brought her a steaming hot café au lait. She opened her notebook and wrote a few lines. Really, wasn’t this exactly what she was hoping for? She wanted to smell the Parisian air, feel the cobblestones under her feet. Finishing her breakfast, she made a few more notes, paid the check, and decided to walk before working more.
Her choice of neighborhood had been inspired. She was so close to the Seine. She already had her bearings, could sense the river to her left, how the sky lightened between the buildings. Ten minutes later she found herself by the gray ribbon of water. She strolled along the quay toward Les Invalides. There were houseboats lashed to the banks below the ponts—why hadn’t she thought of that? Living on the water, able to lift anchor and float away if necessary, the constant glow of the sun on the small rippling waves, would be the perfect life for a woman trying to remain unseen.
But it might be hard to work on the laptop, she did get a bit seasick. At the thought, a small qualm went through her. She chased it away with a nice, deep lungful of heady river air.
A bateau-mouche full of tourists cruised below her. They waved madly and shouted when they realized they’d caught her attention. Students, by the looks of them, young, carefree, so open and ready. Did they have any idea what waited for them in the world? The sorrow and pain and misery? Were they simply lost in their own narcissistic little lives?
When she was their age, she was heavy with... But no, she didn’t want to think about that today. Today was for reveling in her new life. Today was for Justine Holliday.
She waved back, and they cheered.
Oh, the possibilities. Oh, the places you will go.
The Seine is a dynamic beast, ever changing as the day goes by, and she witnessed its many variations with pleasure. She walked miles, up the left bank, past the Pont Neuf, down to Notre-Dame. Pont des Arts’s charm was no longer—the new Plexiglas barrier was disheartening; she’d so been looking forward to seeing all the locks attached to the wires, half a century of lovers’ declarations. She crossed the Seine on the Pont de Bercy, moved back up the right bank until she found an open bench beneath a willow, and watched. Lovers, tourists, businessmen, artists. The banks of the Seine drew them all, like moths to a flame.
She preferred the right bank; the wide paths were lined with willows and lindens and horse chestnuts, their leaves green and yellow, begging to shelter.
The gray stone and stormy water and the green trees with their brown bark, peeling in places, waving to and fro in the gentle Parisian spring breeze, allowing bits of sunshine to peek through, made for a lovely afternoon. Sutton wrote in her notebook, napped a bit, allowed herself to unplug. Dropped petals from a lily she found into the water, let their passage sweep away her shame. Let the guilt and horror she’d been living with go.
Lighter of spirit, she walked slowly up the river toward her new home. It all felt so right. So good.
Back in her neighborhood, she grabbed fresh crusty bread and fragrant onion soup from the café on the corner. The sun was setting as she mounted the steps to her flat. She unlocked the door, went inside. The rooms were filled with pink light. She admired the view one last time, ate her soup, dipping the bread into the broth, had a small glass of wine, and went to her desk to start transcribing her notes. She pulled out her chair.
The metallic clunk startled her. She leaped backward. The knife just missed her foot.
“What in the hell?”
She bent down and picked it up. It was a hunting knife, large, with a clean edge on one side and a serrated edge on the other. The handle was dark bone, with a metal rivet at the base, where it met the tang of metal. It smelled off. Like bleach, but less strong.
There was tape
on both ends, the sharp and the dull. She set it down, got on her hands and knees, wedged her head under the drawer, and looked under the desk. There were trailing edges of masking tape, the two sides ripped apart. She fit the knife into position, saw it matched the edges. The knife would fit perfectly in the space.
Which meant the knife had been taped under her desk. What in the world? Jesus, had someone broken into the flat and taped it under her desk?
She crawled out from under and stared at the knife. The handle had something on it, flecks of... God, was that blood?
Something like panic began to crawl up her spine.
This was not her knife.
So whose knife was it?
WHEN THINGS GO SIDEWAYS
Heavy pounding started on her door, and Sutton dropped the knife to the desk. It clattered against the edge, then fell onto the floor.
Urgent calling in French now, the pounding getting louder and more frantic.
She dropped her purse on top of the knife and went to answer the door. Took three deep breaths before she opened it, wiped her hands on her pants. Turned the knob.
“Oui?”
Two men stood before her wearing police uniforms. The flics stared at her aggressively. The one who’d been pounding dropped a hand to his waist and said, in English, “Mademoiselle, we respond to your call of distress. How can we be of service?”
“I didn’t... I don’t... Je ne comprends pas.”
He looked confused. “You are not being attacked, then?”
“No. I’m alone. I didn’t call you.” Yes, I’m alone, just me and my hunting knife covered in blood.
He didn’t buy it. “If you do not mind, we shall look through your apartment, to be sure you are not telling us mistruths under duress.”
She found his broken, formal English charming, but there was no way she was going to let them in.
“I am fine, as you can see. No duress, no calls. I fear you have received my address by mistake. Which means there is someone out there who is in trouble and needs you. Thank you, gentlemen.”
The second flic looked at his notebook. “You are Justine Holliday? You have rented this flat from Monsieur Gallupe, for the term of one year?”
They knew too much. The panic was returning. Sutton—Justine—didn’t handle interrogation well. Get rid of them. She had to get rid of them, now.
“As I have said, I am fine. Thank you for your concern.”
The haughty tone seemed to work this time. They both nodded and allowed her to close the door. She heard their steps retreating toward the elevator, heard the slam of the metal interior door and the grinding of the gears lowering the car, and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
First the knife, then the police?
Sutton hurried to the desk, moved her purse. The knife, its wicked edge gleaming in the sun, made her horribly uncomfortable. She had no idea who’d put it there, if someone was trying to send her a message, nor what that message might be. But part of this escapade in Paris was staying off the radar. And instead of staying off the radar, she’d already talked to two different sets of police.
She looked out the window toward the street. The police were no longer in sight.
Could the two incidents be related? Or was someone playing a game with her? Or worse, was she losing it? Had the stress and fear and chaos finally taken its toll?
Possible. All too possible.
Colin Wilde’s name floated through her mind.
Sutton, don’t be ridiculous. No one knows where you are, especially him.
No one knew she was gone but Ethan, and with how things were going between them, she figured he would be happier to see her gone than to have her around.
But a huge, wicked knife, with blood on it, smelling of bleach, in her flat? And police coming to her door for a distress call she hadn’t made?
It was beyond weird, and the strange familiarity of the police showing up when she hadn’t called them creeped her out.
Think, Sutton. Think.
Constantine had been in the flat, obviously, but she’d been with him every moment. There was no way he could have distracted her enough that she wouldn’t notice him climbing under her desk to tape a knife there.
Could he?
No. No, it wasn’t possible. The previous owner had been very, very anxious to get out of town. In his rush, he must have forgotten the weapon was stashed under the desk. Or maybe a renter had put it there and forgotten it.
She’d probably knocked it loose with her knee in her sleep the previous night, and when she pulled out the chair, it had torn loose from its moorings and fallen to the floor.
She laughed aloud, relief flooding her body. Two unrelated incidents, surely.
You should write more mystery novels, Sutton. Justine. Maybe Justine wasn’t working on a memoir after all, but a thriller.
She found the masking tape in the kitchen drawer. The torn edges matched the pieces of tape under the desk that had held up the knife for God knew how long. Proof, then, that the knife was here well before she’d arrived. Guns were not common among the Parisians; this knife was an excellent deterrent, especially for someone who rented his home out to strangers for part of the year.
It had been left behind. Yes, she was sure of it.
Keep lying to yourself, Sutton. You’re so good at it.
Ignoring the voice, she debated what to do. Tape the knife back into position under the desk? Stow it in a closet?
No, she couldn’t stand knowing it was here. She didn’t want it around. No matter how benign, it was very large, and she had no idea how to use a knife in self-defense, so it could easily be used against her. She needed it far away, right now.
She should just throw it away. Put it in the trash inside a bag and let it be taken to the refuse facility. But what if someone was hurt? What if the knife cut the plastic and fell on a child, cutting them badly?
No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Instead, she wrapped it in napkins and stashed it in her purse. Locked the door to the flat and started off, toward the river.
The Seine, the beautiful Seine, such a short walk from the apartment, was shining silver in the moonlight, waves splashing against the quay from the passage of a small boat.
She hurried. She was tired and ready to go to bed; the sudden rush of adrenaline through her system at finding the knife and the flics coming to the door had left her drained.
There were people around, she needed to be careful. Then again, there were always people around. She’d chosen Paris for the romance, the idea of writing a book in the City of Light, and the ability to hide in plain sight in the throngs of people. Now she wished she’d chosen something remote, someplace she could disappear and no one would see her or recognize her from day to day. What had she been thinking, coming here?
Under the unflinching metal gaze of the Tour, she walked onto the Pont d’Iéna, went to the middle of the bridge. Feigned nonchalance, leaned against the rails. When she felt no one was looking, she slid the knife from her purse.
A hard hand grabbed hers.
“Mademoiselle Holliday.”
She started and looked up to see the twin forms of the flics who’d been at her door earlier, one on either side.
“What are you doing, mademoiselle?” But the man had already wrenched the knife from her grasp. “Who belongs to this knife? It is yours, yes?”
“I... No... Please.”
The younger of the two, the one who’d knocked on her door, shook his head. She didn’t know if it was with pity or disgust. “You must come with us. A crime has been committed, and you must answer questions.”
“What crime? I haven’t done anything. Where are you taking me?”
“You will come now for questioning.”
They were already marching her toward their car, one on each arm. She thought to struggle, or to scream, but she was so shocked, so frightened, she was frozen in silence. Without another sound, she let them move her off the bridge and into their car and take her away.
AN ARREST IS MADE
Sutton hated the police. She hated the smell of the stations—even here, in Paris, it was just the same as that hateful place she’d been forced into overnight as a teenager. She was trying hard not to panic. Though she’d done nothing wrong, she wasn’t stupid. Being apprehended standing on a bridge about to throw a large, bloody hunting knife into the water below didn’t look good at all.
They took her to the police station on Rue Fabert next to Les Invalides. When she finally got her wits about her, Sutton—Justine—kept up a steady patter of protests and demands to see a lawyer, though they ignored her. They put her in a room, brought her a bottle of water, and shut the door.
She had no idea how the French legal system worked. She didn’t know if she could be charged without evidence, whether she was allowed a phone call, or a lawyer. She was breathing hard and trying to keep it together, but it was difficult. She was supposed to be off the radar, living quietly in Paris, and not even a week in, she was in a police station.
She prayed her identity would hold up. She hadn’t brought her passport, it was at the flat, but she assumed they would go there and look through her things and find it.
You’re Justine Holliday from Hollywood, Florida. Just remember that.
But as the minutes ticked past, the panic rose.
They were doing it on purpose, of course. Knowing she was scared and alone, leaving her thinking and sweating in a metal box in the middle of the night, with ultrabright fluorescent lights overhead, would rattle anyone. They had no idea the fear she had of being a rat in a cage, of being falsely accused. She’d been there before. She hadn’t liked the outcome.
Lie to Me Page 26