Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“Let’s just go check on her, you said, and tell her about the weird cop.” Pierre throws his hands in the air, staring Una down through his long lashes. “You never said anything about trying to arrange a meet and greet with Valdemar Montresor.”
Una holds her hand up to silence him. “It’s a great idea, Evangeline, but I don’t have those kinds of contacts, and I’m not sure he would be willing to talk to us even if we had a means of asking him.”
I’m asking for trouble when I grab my phone from the table and unlock the screen. There’s no need to search for his number, as there are already five missed calls from him.
Last night’s dream comes back to me.
He’ll have wanted to talk to me after that.
His arms were around me, both of them, and then there was the noise of the gun going off. It doesn’t make any sense.
I dial.
“What are you doing?” Una asks. “Do you have a contact who can reach him? If you do, Dupin will be chomping at the bit for it.”
It rings once before he answers.
“I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Please tell me you’re okay,” Valdemar says, his words rushing down the line.
“We need to talk.” Avoiding Una’s gaze, I settle my eyes on the floor, trying to keep my voice neutral and vague.
“Of course. Is everything okay?”
“We just need to talk,” I repeat.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
It would be so much easier for him to come to us, but there’s no way I’m telling Una or Pierre that Valdemar Montresor has been to my apartment.
“No. We’ll come to you,” I tell him.
“We?”
“I’ll explain when we arrive. I take it you’re home?”
“Yes. Shall I send Abel?” he offers.
“No. We’ll drive,” I say.
Ending the call, I drag in a lungful of air and prepare myself for Una’s onslaught.
“I’ll quickly get dressed, and then we can go,” I announce.
Pushing myself out of the chair, I feel two pairs of eyes on me.
“Where the hell are we going, and who did you call?” Una asks, following me across the kitchen.
Unless I want her to come with me while I dress, I’ll have to just spit it out.
“I called Valdemar Montresor. We’re going to his house.”
They glare at me like I’ve suddenly proclaimed I’m the Virgin Mary and carrying the son of God in my womb.
“You wanted answers,” I remind them. Then I step out of the kitchen and into my bedroom.
The three of us are stuffed into Pierre’s tiny car as we pull up to the front of Corvus House, Una’s mouth not having closed since we set off.
Why the hell do I have Valdemar Montresor’s number?
Have I called him before?
How many times did I go visit him in prison?
How the hell do I know where he lives?
Question after question. I was just glad she didn’t ask me if I’d fucked him. Her curiosity knows no bounds, but I know she’s feeling hurt. I’ve shut her out, which I shouldn’t have done, but there was no way I could have dealt with her disappointment in me that I’ve been fraternising with the enemy. But is he the enemy? I’ve always thought so. Now, I’m not so sure.
Where I could, I answered vaguely, not committing to anything other than the fact that we’ve talked.
“Why is the life of crime so fruitful?” Pierre muses as he kills the engine and stares up at the mansion.
Una and I remain silent, her appearing to take in the grandeur of the exterior and me trying not to recall the last time I was at this house.
A black car is parked in front of us, and as we climb out, Abel comes into view, polishing the bonnet.
On seeing me, he tips his cap. “Miss Bransby. Nice to see you again.”
“Hey, Abel,” I say.
Burn holes are boring into the back of my jacket, and I presume Una’s stare is the cause.
“Abel? Nice to see you again?” she hisses, picking up her pace on the steps so she’s level with me. “What the fuck is going on here, Evangeline?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” It’s the only thing I can give her.
“Oh, I really do,” she says.
“Leave it, will you,” Pierre tells Una, shivering as he glances at the gargoyles at the top of the steps. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“I’m sure Evangeline will give us a guided tour, seeing as she’s been here before. Seriously, what’s going on? I don’t understand you at all anymore.”
“Then stop trying to.” I immediately feel awful for snapping at my friend, but she’s relentless, and how can I answer her when I don’t understand it myself?
There’s no one on the door, but a camera mounted above the lintel flashes as we gather underneath its gaze. There’s a buzz and a click before the door is opened by Jupiter.
“You again. And you brought backup,” he says.
“We’re here to see Valdemar,” I say with a confidence I didn’t have the last time I saw him.
He steps to the side, and I can feel Una itching to ask more questions, but Jupiter leads us into the foyer, where he deposits us.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” Jupiter disappears up the stairs.
What would Una say if I told her I’d been in Valdemar’s bedroom, in his bed, under his sheets, and under his body? Positive her opinion of me would sink further than it already has, I keep this to myself.
Una and Pierre gawk at the open foyer, the grand staircase before them, and the large fresco window in the landing area. They’re seeing this for the first time—the opulence, the beauty.
Then their bodies tense as if a dark cloud has blown in overhead and they’re bracing themselves for the storm to unleash, whereas my body melts in the presence of the man before me.
Hands in his pockets, Valdemar strides down the staircase, his eyes on me and only me, and I wonder how he’s going to play this.
As if answering, he touches the small of my elbow and plants a light kiss on my cheek. “Angel.” He delivers it as a whisper, though loud enough for both Pierre and Una to hear.
Fuck.
Una positively hops on her toes, and Pierre just stares.
“Are you going to introduce me to our guests?” Valdemar says.
Our guests, like we’re hosting an event as a pair.
“These are my work colleagues.” I step out of his embrace, trying to maintain some professionalism. “This is Pierre Zanthe, a reporter for the Amontillado Gazette , and Una Ligeia, our photographer.”
He nods in their direction.
“And I need no introduction,” Valdemar says.
For the first time this morning, Una is speechless.
“We just want to ask you some questions,” I tell him.
“Is this going in the paper?” he asks.
“No,” I answer quickly, eyeing Una and Pierre, who nod in agreement. “This is something personal.”
“Then where would you like to do this? In the library?” He smirks.
“No,” I snap, my cheeks heating at the suggestion, the memory of what he did to me in there making me quiver. “Not the library.”
“Fine. The drawing room, then.” Turning, Valdemar leads us through a door to the left of the stairs.
“Why not the library?” Pierre hisses in my ear. “Is it haunted or something?”
“Yes. It’s haunted,” I tell him, glad of the lie he’s provided.
“Never mind the ghosts,” Una joins in. “You have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, angel .”
She delivers the endearment as if she’s a hissing cat, her words sharp. She’s upset. Of course she is. I’ve lied to her, kept things from her, shut her out when she’s been there for me for the last five years. She’s bound to be hurting, and just like I do in the same situation, she’s lashing out at me.
Even during daylight, the house breeds darkness all its own as we’re led down a small hallway, eventually reaching a door that opens into a large drawing room.
Like the rest of the house, its décor is rich and threatening, with dark upholstery, bevelled edges, and polished mahogany. A grand piano sits by the window, the lid propped open, the stool pulled out slightly as if someone has just been playing.
Valdemar motions for us to sit on one of the many chairs and sofas in the room, all of them a deep navy brocade decorated with shimmery red embroidery and strategically placed around a fire that exudes warmth despite it not being lit.
I don’t trust myself or Valdemar’s hands, so, like teenagers facing the headteacher, Una, Pierre, and I squash onto a sofa, me in the middle. Valdemar takes the sofa opposite us, his huge frame casting a shadow over us.
“How can I help you?” Valdemar asks, his eyes settled on me.
When it appears as though Una and Pierre have lost their tongues, I answer. “We just want some answers to some questions about the night my brother died.”
My choice of words is purposeful. I don’t want to anger him into shutting down. I would probably have been better off having this conversation with him in private, but then I would still have had to explain things to Una, and I know what happens when I’m alone with Valdemar—no questions would have been answered at all, only new ones raised.
“I’ll try, but that depends on the questions,” he says.
“What happened that night at the casino?” I delve right in.
Valdemar eyes me with caution. “You know what happened.”
“I know what you told me. What I want to know is what really happened.”
“You don’t believe the reports?” He sits forwards, resting his elbows on his knees.
Pierre flinches next to me, and Una hovers on the edge of the sofa.
“You said yourself that there’s no truth in any of the witness statements.” Before he can react, I add, “And when I think back to our conversations, you’ve never said the words to me. Never admitted to pulling the trigger.”
Valdemar raises an eyebrow.
“Una spoke with Sergeant Psyche,” I tell him.
He scratches his chin. “How is he?”
“Old and retired. His memory is a little fuzzy.”
“I’m sure it is,” Valdemar says.
“You see, that’s what strikes us as odd. You’d think something like the murder of a young man would stay with him forever. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. Yet he has. He can’t remember what happened. Can’t recall the details, and some of his answers were, shall we say, a little off,” I tell him.
“Off?” Valdemar furrows his brow.
“Yeah, off. So, we would like to know why that is. Why his memory of that day is so hard to retrieve when I’m sure you remember it like it was yesterday.”
His jaw clenches. Pierre shifts uneasily.
Then Una speaks, her voice not as strong as it normally is. “We just want to know if there’s something you might not have told Evangeline. Something that maybe you forgot.” She’s clearly scared that I’ve pushed Valdemar, a convicted murderer, and I’m afraid I have also, but for an entirely different reason.
“Do you value your life, Miss…?” Valdemar stares at Una, taking command of the room in the way only he can.
“Ligeia,” she answers.
“Ligeia.” He holds her gaze, and I can relate, as I know what it feels like to be held by him.
“Of course I do,” Una replies.
“And you, Pierre Zanthe.” Valdemar’s gaze shifts. “Do you value your life?”
“Yes,” Pierre answers with fear in his eyes.
“And you, angel—I know you don’t value yours, but I do. So, I’m telling the three of you to drop it.”
My blood runs cold.
“What happened on that night is exactly what the police report and the witness statements say, and that’s all you need to know. So, unless there’s anything else I can be of assistance with, I think this interview is over.”
“I didn’t think he would help us,” Una whispers loudly to me.
“Oh, I am helping you, Una Ligeia. I’m helping you all to stay alive,” Valdemar says.
“Thank you for your time,” Pierre says abruptly, rising from the sofa, clearly desperate to leave.
“Wait. I’m not done yet.” I grab hold of Pierre’s arm, my dream coming back to me.
The gun in my hand.
The gun was taken out of my hand.
The shot was fired while Valdemar’s arms were wrapped around my waist.
Both of his arms. Both of his hands.
His dream. His memory.
In his dream, I am him. I’m holding the gun. I’m the one who couldn’t pull the trigger until someone took the gun from my hand.
His hand.
“You might not be willing to answer our questions, but that doesn’t stop us from answering them for you,” I say.
“Don’t.” Valdemar moves to the edge of the seat, his eyes boring into me, pleading with me not to go there. But I have to do this. I’ve lived with this for so long, and I came to him for answers, but all he’s given me is fiction. It’s time to fill in the blanks.
“You were there that night. You held the gun to my brother’s head, and you tried to kill him. He begged you to, but you couldn’t do it, could you?”
“Angel.” He tries to sound stern, but his eyes are watering, the memory too fierce to overcome.
“You didn’t pull the trigger. Someone else did. And you took the fall just like everyone else took the bribe. All of you. Who would be worth that? Who has the power to buy so many voices? Who do you fear enough to lock yourself away for ten years for a murder you didn’t commit?”
I stare at Valdemar, the man who I thought had ruined my life, the man who I now see lost his own life as much as I lost mine.
“Who pulled the trigger, Valdemar? Because I know it wasn’t you.”