I glance at her. Seraphine is as skinny as they come. “She was crazy. You aren’t fat.”
I’m not sure she hears me, because she continues. “Another time, there was this family, and there were three of us foster kids. If you misbehaved, they would lock you down in the basement for a day or two. I was once down there for three days. It was gross. They only gave me water. And I never did anything wrong; one other kid was always trying to get me in trouble.”
“And this happened in England? It sounds barbaric. And illegal.” I sit down beside her on the gazebo floor.
“In London,” she says, glancing at me briefly. “It probably was illegal, but I was too afraid to say anything. You don’t want to be known as a problem child or they’ll put you with families even worse. I’ve heard horror stories.”
“So you were never knocked around?”
She nods. “I was. But they don’t really stick out. I mean, it hurt. But it happened so frequently it was just . . .” She shrugs. “They were good at hiding it too. One lady would burn you with cigarettes on your arms and make you wear long sleeves.” At that, she turns her arm over, and I can just faintly see a few marks, something I thought was just pigment earlier. “Some would do what your dad did and get you in the face or on the head. But if the social workers ever came to the door, your bruises were gone, and they pretended everything was fine.”
“You never complained?”
“No one believes kids.”
I know she’s right about that. “I guess it’s really lucky that my aunt and uncle found you.”
She gives me the first smile I’ve seen on her in a while. “It’s very lucky. I’m spoiled now and I know it. I guess . . . I still don’t feel like I belong here, though. I used to pray every night for a family that loves me and cares about me, and now I have it and I guess I’m afraid it will be taken away.”
“I think you’re here to stay,” I tell her. I open my mouth to tell her that my aunt and uncle are wonderful people, but it makes me feel bitter about it all, so I don’t say anything except, “I’ve never heard you talk so much before.”
She smiles again, and it’s a pretty smile. “I suck at French, still. But if we’re speaking English, it’s okay.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I feel like I don’t belong with my family either,” I admit. Something makes me pause, something wants me to hold stuff back and not get personal. But for whatever reason, I feel I can actually relate to Seraphine now on some level. “It’s hard to explain.”
“You don’t have to explain,” she says. “I know.” She picks up the bottle and shakes it. “Are you done with this?”
I nod and she tosses it over the railing, back into the bushes.
“Good throw,” I tell her. “For a girl,” I add.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling.
CHAPTER THREE
SERAPHINE
I can’t sleep.
It’s been two days since I confessed to Marie my biggest fears, and I swear all that confession has done is make the fears even larger than life, invading my thoughts and my dreams.
The truth is, I’ve opened up to both Olivier and Blaise about my theories before, but Olivier stubbornly refused to even entertain the idea, and Blaise, well, he may hate his brother and father, but he’s not about to accuse them of murder either. Besides, he has no dog in this race.
Opening up to Marie wasn’t much better. She’s as skeptical as sin to begin with, so I wasn’t surprised she listened to me with one brow raised the entire time.
“Seraphine,” she said when I was done, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re so overwhelmed with grief, you need to put the blame somewhere in order to process it. But there is no blame. Your father died of a heart attack. He may have been in great shape, but it happens. It just happens sometimes. That’s life. It’s not murder.”
And with that I knew there was no point in trying to further convince her. We went back to drinking wine and talking about other things, all while the seed of truth inside me was growing and growing.
I know deep inside it’s true.
That’s why I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it these last six months. Working under the man I believe killed my father has been a special sort of hell, so most of the time I won’t even let my brain entertain the idea. But lately, I can’t seem to shake it.
I don’t have any proof. None. It’s just a gut feeling. It’s that burning hatred I feel deep inside me mixed with the heart-heavy horror that this actually happened.
Gautier had everything to gain with my father out of the picture. He got control of the company, which normally wouldn’t have happened had he not been blackmailing Olivier for his shares. It’s been ten years since he set Olivier up for sleeping with Pascal’s ex-wife, but the transfer of the shares and the death of my father created the perfect situation for Gautier and his sons.
I’m not giving up on the idea that it could be Pascal who did it either. He’s just malicious and devious enough. But my instincts tell me that it was both Pascal and Gautier together.
As for Blaise, I know he didn’t do it. He obviously thinks I’m insane for having entertained the idea, and I haven’t brought it up around him since. But I know him, and I believe him.
I wish there had been an autopsy. The doctors were so quick to rule out anything other than a heart attack, even though my father was a very rich, very famous man who made a lot of enemies. He never did anything wrong and was always so gracious and giving and kind, but success creates jealousy—especially at this level, especially to an untrained eye who would say my father just inherited it all from his father.
Therefore, you would have thought the fact that he had just been given a clean bill of health by his doctor, and had no heart condition whatsoever, would have raised some alarm.
But that’s the thing about my uncle. He has connections that run deep. You don’t get to the top without stepping on a few throats, and Gautier goes for the jugular. He could have easily paid off the doctor. It might seem like a stretch, but I’m not ruling it out.
I’m not ruling anything out. That’s why I’m lying here in bed, trying to sleep even though my brain wants to pick through every shred of evidence that there could be. I know I’d probably be better off if I believed what Marie said. Just chalk this up to grief and move on with my life. I just can’t. I owe it to my father to at least see.
I stare up at the ceiling and sigh, wishing that I’d turned the light out in the hallway. I’m jumpy these days, and every shadow has me paranoid that there’s someone lurking in the dark.
It’s only your imagination, I tell myself, but a few seconds later I’m sighing and getting out of bed.
It’s February and it’s cold. My apartment is over two hundred years old and drafty as fuck. Even though I was only in India until I was four, I swear it’s made me a weakling when it comes to winter.
I quickly hurry to the hall to switch off the light, the hardwood floors cold on my soles, only then noticing that the window is open and the freezing air is flowing inside, making the curtains billow.