The door slams shut behind me. I’m left alone.
I exhale. At least this room is a bit warmer than the cell downstairs, and the plastic chair more comfortable. I sit down, waiting for Lennox, or a lawyer, or even a detective to come and question me, but the seconds tick past.
I try to think logically. What should I say to them? What if I can’t keep my story straight? With every passing minute, I feel my resolve slip, imagining a life behind bars, with no parole.
Stop it, Grace.
I take a few deep breaths and try to stay calm. This is exactly what they want: me freaking out and ready to spill my guts. Haven’t I seen it enough on cop shows on TV? Leave the suspect to stew until finally someone walks in and offers them a deal. But if they think the alone time is going to make me crack, they’re wrong. When your mom has cancer, you spend a lot of time waiting for answers.
Right on cue, the door finally opens, and Lennox walks in.
“Sorry about the wait,” he says, juggling two steaming Styrofoam cups and a bakery box in his hands. “I got called away. How are you doing? Hungry?”
He places the food down in front of me. Fresh croissants and pain au chocolat, smelling amazing. And is that…?
“Coffee,” he says, nudging the cup closer to me. “And not from a vending machine either. The French know how to brew a proper latte, I’ll give them that.”
He notices me shivering in my silk dress. “Here, take my jacket. You may as well get comfortable, we could be here a while.”
He drapes his jacket around my bare shoulders, then settles in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
“Mmm, I need this,” he sighs, taking a long gulp of coffee, and tearing off a corner of croissant. “I’ve been up all night with the evidence logs. You guys were thorough, I’ll give you that, but nobody leaves a crime scene completely clean.”
He leans back, eating. Casual, friendly – and totally unlike the stubborn agent I thought I knew.
He’s playing good cop. I narrow my eyes and press my lips together.
At this moment I want nothing more than to tell him where to shove his pastries, but the smell is too good, and I haven’t had a meal since yesterday. My stomach lets out a loud rumble, and I reach for the croissant. The buttery pastry melts in my mouth, and I inhale the whole thing in three bites. I gulp half the coffee, too, and begin to feel like a person again. I’m about to thank him when I remember who put me here.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, and carefully sip my coffee, deciding to keep quiet and see where this goes.
Lennox finishes his pastry before leaning back and giving me a friendly look. “Here’s the thing, Grace. I don’t care about you right now. I’m after bigger fish, and you know that, so it’s time to come clean. Tell me everything and you can go free.”
I decide to call his bluff. “What if I’m guilty?”
Lennox snorts. “I know you just got caught up in St. Clair’s games. I’ve interviewed enough witnesses to know that he can be quite persuasive. Maybe he made you think this was all a game, a fun little adventure. But it’s not. These are serious offenses, a serious crime. Do you understand?”
Better than he can imagine, but I force myself to just keep breathing. Surely if he has evidence against me, he would be using it by now?
“You’ve had it out for St. Clair from the start,” I say quietly. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
I hate lying, but this is true, in a way. What we did may have been technically illegal, but I still believe we did the right thing to get back at Crawford. That Armande belongs to St. Clair’s family.
“Oh no?” Lennox goes in for the kill. “Then why are your fingerprints all over the crime scene? It doesn’t look too good.”
I freeze, my heart stuttering in panic, but then I remember. “I was at the gallery for the party, and before then, too. St. Clair and I had a guided tour, we oversaw the delivery of his exhibit. I must have touched a dozen things.”
Lennox scowls. “And where were you the night before the opening?”
“With St. Clair.” I stand firm; it’s the truth. I don’t have to tell him what we were doing. “We were together all night.”
He remains unconvinced. “How convenient.”
The good cop routine must be wearing thin, because now Lennox glares at me. “You know, at first I thought you were a smart girl, Grace. But standing by a man who will give you up to save his own ass is incredibly stupid.”
“What do you mean, give me up?” I frown.
“Didn’t you know?” Lennox smirks. “St. Clair’s in the other room right now, telling us everything. I wanted to see if I could cut a deal with you, get you out of this before he sold you out completely, but I guess it’s too late now.”
I stare at him, notice the tension in the hand he’s clinging to the table with, and suddenly, my fears are gone. He really is bluffing.
“St. Clair would never do that,” I say.
Lennox leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’re not the first woman to believe a man’s lies. You can’t trust a thief, Grace. They are all liars.”
I look Lennox in the eye. “He doesn’t lie to me.”
Lennox scrapes back his chair and heads for the door. “Just ask yourself: are you willing to bet your future on him?”
I don’t even need to think it over.
“Always,” I vow. Lennox snorts, and then he’s gone.
I’m stuck waiting in the interview room another hour, so I figure I may as well finish off those croissants. Now that my panic has passed, I’m feeling better. Lennox really is clutching at straws here. Still, it makes me wonder: will he ever give up?
He’s followed St. Clair halfway across the world, stalked him at every turn…even if St. Clair never pulled another heist, and reformed to live as a good, law-abiding citizen, Lennox would be right there behind us, lurking, waiting for some reason to pounce.
Just how far will he go to bring St. Clair down?
Eventually, the door opens. It’s Lennox again. He doesn’t look happy.
Another man pushes past him, small and French. “I’m so sorry for the delay, mademoiselle,” he gushes. “Please, come this way.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Wherever you wish. You’re free to go,” he explains.
I look at Lennox, but he’s scowling at the floor. Clearly, he’s been overruled.
I stand and lift my chin, perking up already. “Finally.”
“Again, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.” The short man glares at Lennox, then ushers me out to the front lobby of the police station. I can hear a familiar voice as we get closer—it’s St. Clair, sounding furious.
“…I’ll be lodging a formal complaint. This is unacceptable—”
“Monsieur St. Clair.” The Frenchman rushes forward, raising his hands in apology. “Please, there’s no need to shout. Your friend is safe and well, and free to go.”
St. Clair sees me, and rushes to pull me into his arms. He holds me tightly, and I lean into his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers.
“It’s fine.” I pull away. “Everything’s okay.” I look around at all the cops, and people, and reporters jostling by the doors. “I just want to get out of here.”
“Right away.”
“I wouldn’t go too far,” Lennox says, planting himself in front of us. “I still need to reach you for questioning.”
St. Clair looks like he wants to land a swift right hook on the agent’s face, but I’m too tired to deal with anything more. The events of the past 24 hours hit hard, and I have to hold on to St. Clair tightly to keep from falling over.
“Please,” I whisper, “No more fighting. Just take me home.”
“Of course.”
He wraps a protective arm around me, and leads me through the chaos.