Chapter 8
Carragan gives everyone the lecture of a lifetime.
Shouting about how we have to “act natural or get ourselves all sunk.”
Yelling, “You all—excluding that lady over there [me]—are authors who make up characters in your books all the time; just
pretend you’re one of those sane people over the course of this trip!”
Honestly, I’ve never seen an officer so insensitive, all things considered.
But I guess that isn’t part of the job description.
Nash is right.
The group has wound themselves into such a fit of worry that by eight o’clock, they look like they are trying to tiptoe on
the point of a knife.
Leaving them alone did them no favors. I may have had three momentary panic attacks over the day, but something about staying
busy at least let me keep my wits about me.
“You’re up,” Carragan grunts at the end of his long lecture, motioning to me. “The rest of you”—he waves his hands in the air in an I couldn’t care less if you live or die way—“go to your rooms, stay here, end up on deck, I don’t care. Miss Dupont, I’ll follow you.”
He motions for me to walk ahead of him, to my room I presume.
Makes sense.
Nash had said Carragan spent half of his interview poking around the pillowcases looking for clues.
I cast one glance back at the group and (aside from Nash) see the hollow, frightened, and frankly suspicious glares.
I frown at Neena, who is looking at me like she’s never noticed before how suspicious five-foot-even girls who overbuy stocking
gifts for friends’ cats are.
Really, Neena?
Et tu, Brute?
My room is in tatters from rushing around all day. Clothes are strewn across the floor. Drink cups empty and discarded.
Turns out, neat freak behavior has no manners.
How neurotic can you be, Pip? A man just died.
And yet I begin hastily picking up papers and tidying up my bed as Carragan steps inside.
“Here. Let me just—” I begin, snatching up a pillow from the floor, arms loaded.
“Tell me, Miss Dupont, when exactly did the hate for your boss begin?” Carragan cuts in, pen in hand.
I stop abruptly. A pillow falls. “Excuse me?”
“That was your motive, wasn’t it?” he continues, scribbling something down. “Hatred? Or perhaps . . . jealousy? Jealousy tends
to be a big hitter when dealing with someone this successful. Unless . . . did you have anything to gain, perhaps? Has he
put you in his will?”
He says it like he’s musing aloud, not even thinking for a moment about exactly with whom he’s talking. Like I’m some . . . some random coworker instead of a real, live, absolutely affected person.
Ugh. I’ve read about this type of investigative questioning a thousand times, this aggressive rushing in like a bull on fire,
but when it’s directed at you about a person you care about, it hits entirely differently. A fire builds in the pit of my stomach. A shot of adrenaline zips around my body,
desperate to defend myself against such unholy accusations.
It’s stupid.
It’s stupid and I know what he’s doing. But I can’t help myself.
“How dare you insinuate something so . . .” I fumble for the words. “So . . . false about me. I have been nothing but dedicated to Hugh for five years. He was a friend—”
“What does being friends have to do with anything here? Half the murders I come across are people who were ‘friends.’ And
I imagine some half-witted gold digger running around getting him coffee like yourself—”
I round my shoulders back.
This man has absolutely no right.
NO. RIGHT.
I point a finger at his chest.
Actually, if I’m being totally honest, I irresponsibly and irrationally put my finger on this security officer’s chest, and I push a little. “Now look here, sir. I have read all the books Hugh’s written. All seventy-two of them, multiple times. I myself have edited twenty of them. I have spent
a thousand nights working through detective dialogues just. Like.
This. And I can tell you right now you will absolutely not play such a petty, aggressive trick on me to get me to crack, because there is nothing to crack.
And if there was something to crack, you’d better be smarter about it, because believe me, after working under Hugh for this many years, I know every trick in the book.
So please, at the very least, question me, but don’t insult my intelligence. ”
Carragan and I share in a sort of stare-down for some time. I make sure he’s the first to look away.
“Fine,” he says, flipping a page in his notebook. The tiniest smile flicks on his lips. “If you’re so smart, Miss Dupont,
lead the way. Break it down for me.”
I holster my finger back at my side. “Break what down?”
“What you think I should ask. How I get can the information out of you that I need. You think you can do that, right?”
“Absolutely,” I say with less certainty. I cross my arms over my chest.
“Then do it. Do my job.” There’s sarcasm in his tone.
I hesitate for a blink, then forge ahead. What option do I have? My dignity is on the line.
My mind flips through various conversations I’ve pored over in Hugh’s books, lands on the first question I can remember, and
I wing it. “Alright. I’d say, ‘Let’s begin by walking me through your day. How did your trip begin, Miss Dupont?’ And to that
I’d say . . .”
Turns out, I’m not half bad.
I tell him the questions he was planning to ask, including the information he was trying to squeeze out of me, and answer
them in turn. I can anticipate what facts from my words he wants to pull out and write down, and sure enough, I’m right 90
percent of the time.
Isn’t it incredible how fiction can mirror reality?
Even Carragan begrudgingly gives me a little respect in the form of tiny nods as he writes things down. Or was this his plan
all along?
Thirty minutes goes by in conversation. Forty-five. An hour. Why am I different than everyone else here? Does he actually think I am the one who did it?
“Tell me, Miss Dupont, what would you have to gain from Hugh’s death in this instance?” Carragan says eventually, cutting
in.
I frown. “Nothing. I’m out of a job.”
“Not nothing entirely, though, is it? You are well known for being the assistant to Hugh Griffin. A lot of people are desperate
to know about the inner workings of a successful man like that. You were close enough to touch the oven itself, if you catch
my drift.”
“I could go out and find another assistant job, if that’s what you’re saying. But that’s not a perk. At best, that’s a parallel
move.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m sure lots of authors would love to have the assistant of Hugh Griffin for themselves. The
keeper of secrets. The front-row viewer of his success. Perhaps you’ve learned things from him you could go forth and share
with others. Perhaps you could use those secrets to propel your own writing success.”
“My writing success?” I say with a laugh. “I’m not going out to have my own name on a shelf, and I definitely don’t need to kill
anyone to begin writing. The only thing I’ve learned from Hugh was that he was a mastermind with skills I’ll never possess.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that’s all you learned. Of all the people I’ve interviewed, you come out the one most capable of getting
away with murder.”
Me?
Me?
“He was bluntly stabbed in the back and now is stuck on a ship,” I reply curtly. “This isn’t mastermind work. If it was up to me, I’d have a timed alibi, use foxglove to mimic a heart attack, and be the last person to walk in on him dead this morning. A stab in the back is crude work.”
Carragan’s brows shoot up. He scribbles something down.
Right.
Mental note: Moving forward, avoid sounding like Ricky.
You are a dumb assistant. You get confused about which paper to put in the printer and scroll for hours at your desk. Be. Dumb.
“And you say you share an apartment with two other roommates on 102nd Street between Broadway and West End Avenue? Must be
tiring, taking the subway all the way to Tribeca day in and day out. Doing all that heavy lifting for Hugh just so that he
can live among the cobbled streets with the stars—”
“Hugh loves the subway and spends—spent—four out of seven days of the week sleeping on an old couch in his office.” I frown
deeper. “Look, Mr. Carragan, let me cut to the chase on this. I had nothing to gain from this. Nothing. Jealousy didn’t get me. I had $8,615 in my savings account before this happened, and $8,615 now. I will continue to take
the subway. I happen to like my roommates. I wasn’t in love with Hugh. I didn’t hate my job to the point of putting myself in danger either. I never killed
ants with a magnifying glass as a child for fun. And I have never had so much as a speeding ticket. I am just the lowly assistant
to an incredible person, and happened to be the unfortunate first-person witness to a terrible tragedy.”
Carragan purses his lips.
Shuts his notebook.
Grabs his belt buckle and adjusts it as he stands.
“Seems you got it all figured out then, Miss Dupont.”
“I have nothing figured out. I just know I didn’t do it. And I’m tired of this conversation.”
I follow him to the door. The clock on the bedside table now reads 8:30 p.m. The man has a particular ability to wear people
down until they have no civility left. I suppose that’s his aim, and in that sense, I have to give him credit where credit
is due.
He may be irritating, but he’s irritating with purpose.
He pulls the door open, and when one foot is out in the hallway, he turns.
Pauses.
“I do wonder, Miss Dupont . . . if you seem to have it all figured out, maybe you can help me with one thing.”
“What?”
“If it wasn’t you, who do you think did it?”
I swallow.
Pictures of The Seven (now Six) fly through my mind. I suppose I could come up with some crackpot ideas and incentives if
I had to, but I won’t do it.
I’d never do that to them.
I shake my head. “It’s more likely that you are the murderer, Officer Carragan, than any one of them.”
“Unwilling to rat anyone out, are we?” Carragan replies, without surprise. “Never mind. I’ve figured out who did it anyway,
and I intend to bring justice to light in the morning.”
“You knew it wasn’t me all this time, did you? Then why’d you keep me so long?”
He smiles a little. “A detective always does his due diligence. Good night, Miss Dupont.”
“Good night.”
He turns to go. I bite my lower lip, hesitating to ask. If you are so sure of who it is, who is it?
“And Dupont?”
I look up. Realize he’s turned around. “Hmm?”
“I got a daughter about your age, and I can’t help saying it one more time. Keep your door locked tonight. And for your parents’
sake, I wouldn’t open it for a soul.”