Chapter 34 Cassie
Cassie
Now
The wake felt like having another wedding, only over a few days and with less dancing.
Somebody else was bringing the food—I have enough to eat for a week—but even the flowers looked the same.
All along, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being tested.
People had so many questions. Were we fighting?
Did I ever see the dark side to him? Why didn’t I stay?
I was having so much fun! And why didn’t I want to live in Paris with him? It sure looked like I was loving it.
The detectives call again, several times. Once, it’s to confirm that Olivier did die of an overdose of sleeping pills. Hearing it knocks the wind out of me. I’m not a monster. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t tried to kill me first.
The second time, it’s to ask about his visa status and green card application.
For one spine-tingling moment, I wonder if the immigration lawyer told them about our phone call.
I asked about a divorce two days before Olivier supposedly suggested we call it quits.
But I stuck to my story. We fell in love.
We got married. And if I could help Olivier get a green card, then why not?
I wanted him to stay here. It made sense.
I don’t know much about how it all works; Olivier handled that part.
Yes, I think his application was in progress.
Though of course, he wouldn’t need it anymore since he changed his mind and wanted to stay in Paris.
The detectives don’t mention talking to the immigration lawyer, so I have to assume what I said to her really is confidential information.
I’m too scared to call her—what if the police are tracking my phone?
—so I look it up online. She might have to divulge the content of our conversations if I was suspected of murder.
Which, well…but that’s not going to happen.
If the police suspected me, then why aren’t they here already?
Why wait? They have nothing on me. It was self-defense. They can’t prove anything.
Finally, the moment comes when I have the house to myself.
Even Taylor is gone, who knows where. She’s been acting weird all this time.
I mean, even weirder than usual. At night I lie in bed listening to the sounds around the house.
The ticking clock, the creaky stairs. Taylor’s bedroom is down the hall from mine.
There should be no creaking. I can’t squash the feeling that something is coming.
This can’t be the end of it. I killed someone.
I could have walked out of that room after I hit him.
But no one will ever know. It was self-defense.
I have to keep repeating it in my head. If it comes to that, I’ll be ready.
In the kitchen, the smell of the beef stew Madeline brought over escapes from under the lid. It makes me want to throw up. Trying to shake the feeling away, I drag a chair against the counter and get up to check the striped cookie jar.
The money is gone. I can tell even before I lift the lid.
When my inheritance came through, I couldn’t help but stare at the number on my account.
It felt unreal. Ridiculous, even. Olivier kept rambling on about everything he needed to buy to work on the inn—tools and supplies and whatnot—but I wasn’t comfortable giving him my credit card details.
I never trusted him, not even as he watched all those YouTube videos, painfully trying to learn how to patch holes in the wall or how to fix a squeaky door.
I checked my bank balance several times a day, feeling paranoid. What if it suddenly disappeared? So I took a bunch of cash out over time, gave some to Olivier, and stuffed bills around the house. If something ever happened, I’d have that, at least.
Now I wouldn’t put it past my dear husband (RIP) to have stolen from me, especially since he was the only one who knew about the money, aside from that day I was hungover and blabbered to that sleazy Realtor.
I should never have told Olivier, but I was so stunned when that cow agreed to give me so much.
All that money was about to flow right into my pocket!
It wouldn’t feel real until I told someone.
What if Olivier didn’t steal the money? It could have been Taylor.
She knows this hiding spot better than anyone else.
Maybe Olivier told her about it? I never really saw them talk, but then again, I didn’t pay that much attention after I brought him here.
I was too busy dangling Olivier in everyone’s faces.
But Taylor doesn’t get to steal anything else from me.
Her room has always given me the saddest vibes.
Everything is organized and tidy—not one bra littering the floor, no snack wrappers on the small desk by the window.
It smells like the green tea candle she likes to burn and freshly vacuumed carpet.
Like a life not lived. The nightstand drawer only confirms this feeling.
It’s full of half-used ChapSticks, a box of tissues, and a notepad with a grocery list. Poor Taylor.
In her tiny closet, the T-shirts are stored by color (black or gray), the underwear is stacked in a neat pile, and two belts are wrapped in a tight circle.
When we were younger and Mom complained about the state of my room, I’d make Taylor clean it up for me.
The first time I asked, it was almost a joke.
No, a dare. But she did it, so I kept asking.
Maybe she should stay living with me. The house is too big for me to maintain on my own.
Just kidding. I can’t wait to never see her again.
There’s no money anywhere. Definitely not twenty-thousand-dollars’ worth of it.
As I keep searching, Olivier’s words come back to me once again.
He wasn’t just saying that to hurt me. Something was going on.
And maybe it doesn’t matter, or maybe it will make all the difference.
I’m not out of the woods yet. But if I go down, it won’t be on my own.
I pull some of the clothes out of the closet.
There’s got to be a clue somewhere. Or maybe I just need to keep busy.
For the first few days after someone dies, people are all over you, pretending that your feelings are the most important thing in the world.
And then they go away. Grief has an expiration date, apparently.
Taylor owns all of three pairs of jeans, which she wears in constant rotation, even in summer. She doesn’t like her pasty white legs, feels too girlie in a skirt. At least that’s how I’d feel if I were her. I yank the jeans out a little too hard, and one pair drops onto the floor.
When I pick it up, something falls from the pocket.
It’s a black paper sleeve wrapped with a plastic card inside.
I recognize the logo even before I kneel down to retrieve it.
The cursive B I saw all the time when I was in Paris, and the room number.
609. This is the key card to my hotel suite, the one I kept in my wallet, the very one that was stolen at Café de Flore.
It has to be—there’s a red stain from the day my lipstick opened in my bag and smudged onto the paper—and yet, it makes no sense at all.
I sit down on the bed, struggling to catch my breath.
Taylor was here and that card was lost—stolen—while I was in Paris.
The only way Taylor could have this is if she was in Paris herself.
But of course that can’t be. She was here. Home. The whole time. Or was she?
My phone rings, startling me. The name on the screen sends my body into panic mode, but I answer it anyway. I don’t think I have a choice.
“Detective Jackson,” I say.
I need to tell her. Taylor was in Paris. She followed me around. She stole my wallet, she… What? What did she do? But that’s for the police to figure out.
“Ms. Laurent. I’m glad to catch you. I have some important news.”
“Me too,” I say without thinking.
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have…something.” I don’t know how to put it. Taylor was in Paris. How?
“Okay, well, if you don’t mind me jumping in. We had a call with the detectives in France this morning.”
My heart stammers in my chest. Clutching the key card in my other hand, I walk out.
“Ms. Laurent?”
“I’m here.”
“The investigation is complete. The French police have ruled your husband’s death an accident.
An accidental overdose, most likely. The relatively small amount of sleeping pills found in his system makes it hard to conclude it was death by suicide.
Though of course that’s still a possibility.
I’m sorry to say we’ll never know for sure. ”
I exhale quietly. “No, I guess we won’t.”
“To be honest, there are still aspects of this case that don’t sit right with me.”
“Yes!” I say without thinking.
This is when I tell her about Taylor, right? But the detective speaks again before I can cut in.
“So, I want to ask: why didn’t you tell us about the voicemail?”
“The voicemail?” I can’t contain the surprise in my voice. Did Darren speak to the police? But I never left him a voicemail.
“The one you left on your husband’s phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“The day after you returned from your honeymoon, you called your husband multiple times from your cell phone. Didn’t you?” the detective adds when I don’t respond.
My mouth goes dry. It must be a trap. I should have called him to check in, shouldn’t I? If the breakup was so amicable, I should have called to say I’d made it home and see how he was doing, the poor husband I left behind in Paris.
“I think I’m still in shock,” I say tentatively. “It’s all been very upsetting.”
“That’s understandable.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t even remember what I said. My memory is fuzzy.”
“Well, I know what you said. I read the transcript.”
Wait, did I actually call Olivier and I don’t remember? “Will you read it to me?” I say.
“I’m not supposed to.”