Delayed Vacation
Bianca
Same day
The moment I open the door, I know something is wrong. It’s not just the two uniformed officers standing slightly behind him. It’s the man in the center.
Early thirties. Impeccable dark suit. The kind of gaze that has already decided everything.
Not a neighbor. Not a mistake. Someone who came for me.
My heart stumbles once.
“Miss Bianca Fabre?”
“Yes… that’s me.”
The silence that follows is too heavy, too final.
“You are under arrest for the attempted murder of Valeria Ivanov, industrial espionage, and conspiracy to commit a crime.”
The floor seems to vanish beneath me.
“You’re mistaken,” I say.
My voice trembles more than I want it to.
“There’s no mistake.”
His eyes flick briefly toward my stomach. A detail. A calculation.
“For your sake and your baby’s, I advise you to come with us without resisting.”
Panic surges violently, uncontrollably. I step back once, as though distance could still change anything.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whisper. “This is all a terrible misunderstanding.”
But the officers are already moving forward.
This is not a discussion. It’s a conclusion.
The hallway behind me suddenly feels unreal. My apartment. My belongings. My life. It’s over.
“Can I take something with me?” I ask almost automatically.
“You’ll be provided with whatever you need.”
No aggression. No compassion. Just procedure.
My hands are shaking. I try to think, to find a logical explanation. But there’s only one.
Someone talked. Or worse—someone saw everything.
My eyes land on my phone resting on the entryway console. I reach for it.
The inspector reacts first, as though he can read my thoughts.
“If you’re trying to contact Gaspard Peltier, don’t bother. He was taken into custody this morning.”
The shock is immediate, absolute.
Gaspard. Arrested.
Then it’s over.
I’m alone. Completely alone.
Cold settles inside my chest, deeper and heavier than panic. An icy certainty replacing fear.
No leverage left. No plan left. No way out.
So I move forward.
One step, then another.
My movements no longer feel like my own. And the moment I cross the threshold, one thought imposes itself, clear and merciless:
I lost.
*
The room is bare.
A metal table. Three chairs. A camera in the corner—discreet, impossible to forget. A recorder sits in the center of the table. The light is harsh and flat, leaving nowhere for shadows to hide.
I sit perfectly still, my hands clasped in front of me.
The door opens. Sanders walks in with a file tucked under his arm. He doesn’t look at me right away. He takes his seat, opens the folder, and lets the silence settle between us.
He wants me to crack first. That won’t work on me.
Finally, he looks up.
“Did you sleep well, Ms. Fabre?”
“As well as anyone can in a place like this.”
There’s a knock at the door. My lawyer steps inside and sits beside me.
I relax—barely—but Sanders notices. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Good. Now that we’re all here.”
He switches on the recorder.
“Interview of Ms. Bianca Fabre. Nine forty-two a.m.”
“Ms. Fabre, do you stand by your previous statements?”
“What statements?”
“The ones in which you claimed you had nothing to do with the boat fire two years ago.”
“That’s correct.”
He turns a page.
“Do you know Gaspard Peltier?”
“Yes.”
“You confirm that you were in regular contact with him over the past few months?”
“Yes.”
“And Hector Wald?”
He knows.
My hesitation lasts a second too long. It’s already an admission.
Sanders doesn’t wait for my answer. He pulls out a sheet of paper and slides it toward me with the patience of a man who isn’t in a hurry.
“Phone records. Outgoing call, Friday, December twenty-third, 6:15 p.m. Secure line.”
I glance down at it.
“That proves nothing.”
“No. But the conversation we recorded—with judicial authorization—does.”
They wiretapped me. Since when? How much do they know?
He doesn’t give me time to process the panic.
“We also found material on Gaspard Peltier’s computer. A video showing you standing in the kitchen while the man known as Cain attempted to restrain Ms. Ivanov and inject her with a syringe.”
Bastard.
“I didn’t know anything about their plan. I just got caught in the middle of it. I was terrified…”
My lawyer straightens abruptly.
“Madam, I strongly advise you not to—”
Sanders smiles faintly.
“No. Let her finish.”
I stare at him. And I realize too late. I just admitted I was there.
Silence falls, dense and irrevocable.
Sanders simply waits.
“Premeditated attempted murder,” he finally says evenly. “Do you know what sentence you’re facing?”
I don’t answer.
“Thirty years.”
He switches off the recorder, stands and picks up his file without rushing.
“We’re taking a break.”
“Wait.”
The word escapes before I can stop it. Stronger than I expected.
My lawyer’s hand closes firmly around my arm.
“Madam. Not another word.”
I pull away.
“You’re useless to me.”
His expression hardens.
Good. Let him be angry.
Sanders has stopped moving.
He’s watching me, and for the first time since the interrogation began, something shifts in his expression.
Not surprise.
Interest.