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.
Breathe, Justine. Be calm. They won’t make you wait forever. They have to tell you why they’ve brought you in. Wait and see what they’re up to first.
She was right. She sat for two hours before a female officer came into the room, with the young flic behind her. She spoke excellent, though heavily accented, English.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle. I am Inspector Amelie Badeau. I apologize for the delay in coming to visit with you. I am afraid I was home, getting some rest. It has been a very difficult twenty-four hours for us.”
“Well, I’m sorry for you, but I’d like to know why I’m here. No one has bothered to tell me.” She looked pointedly at the young flic, who stared back impassively.
“Non?” Badeau glanced over her shoulder at her young colleague. “I am sorry about this confusion. If I have been told correctly, you were found on the Pont d’Iéna with a knife, about to throw it into the Seine. A knife that we believe was used in a double murder last evening. While I was being summoned, our laboratory ran an analysis on the knife and found it had blood on it. Further analysis showed two blood types, both of which match the blood types of the victims at Sacré-Coeur last evening. We will have to wait a few days for the DNA testing to be complete, but it seems to me you were caught disposing of a murder weapon.”
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know about any murder.”
But of course she did. It had been all the talk, all day, while she was enjoying herself strolling through Paris. All the disparate threads of conversation she’d overheard throughout the day ran through her head:
Two Americans died on the hill, did you hear...
This makes us look so bad, and after all the negative press this year...
They nearly cut the girl’s head clean off...
They were posed, as if they were having sex...
Can you believe these stupid tourists...?
At the base of the church steps, such sacrilege...
I am scared, I hope they find who did this...
“You have not heard? It is such a shame. Two young lives cut short. With your knife, mademoiselle.”
“I didn’t do this. I found the knife...”
“Oui? D’accord, that may be. We have all night for you to tell me about the knife. But why don’t we get comfortable and discuss what brought you to Paris? I understand you have recently arrived and rented a flat. You applied for a work visa. You plan to stay for a year?”
Sutton wasn’t about to be swayed from the topic at hand. “I didn’t have anything to do with the two murders. Those children, Lily and Rick, I don’t know who killed them. And I want a lawyer.”
The woman smiled kindly. “I didn’t tell you the victims’ names. So you are aware of the case, are you not, mademoiselle?”
Sutton shut her eyes briefly. Stop being stupid.
Badeau continued in that friendly, concerned tone. “You are not in America, Mademoiselle Holliday. You don’t have the same rights as you might be afforded at home.” She settled back more comfortably into the chair as if getting ready for a nice, long chat. “Now, tell me, what brought you to Paris?”
Sutton closed her mouth, her lips seamed together as if sewed shut, and shook her head. She wasn’t going to say another word. This was bad, very bad, and she couldn’t take the chance of screwing herself more. She knew she’d get a lawyer eventually, but shit, what was she going to do, call the embassy and ask for help? She had a fake passport, a fake identity. She was here under very false pretenses, and that was illegal. She couldn’t imagine the embassy staff was predisposed to helping foreign nationals who flouted the law.
She shook her head at the woman, who smiled as if she understood completely.
Badeau signaled her compatriot to leave, then, when the door shut, leaned close, and said, “You might as well start talking. We know what you’ve done. And we know who you are. We have video of you on the grounds of Sacré-Coeur, trying to admire your handiwork, and again, later, laying flowers to make it seem you were simply there as another grieving tourist. The murder weapon was found in your flat. We are searching it thoroughly as we speak for more evidence. It does not take a genius to pull the threads together. Now,” she said, smiling kindly, “it is time for you to tell me the truth about your involvement in the murders.”
Sutton fought back tears. Oh, God. She was well and truly screwed.
“I want a lawyer.”
“Pfft.” Badeau gave a Gallic shrug. “If you are not willing to talk to me about the murder, would you perhaps like to talk about the real reason you’re in Paris?”
“Lawyer.”
Badeau shook her head and sighed heavily. “You will do well to cooperate with me, Mademoiselle. I want only to get to the truth, to understand what is actually happening.”
Silence from Sutton. She was a sphinx. She would not break.
“Suit yourself. I was going to wait to talk to you about this. You’re possibly the most famous missing person on the planet right now. A missing person, and the number one suspect in a gruesome double murder. Yes, we know who you are, Sutton Montclair, from Franklin, Tennessee.”