Paris, France
Sutton didn’t panic, not right away. She just couldn’t believe how quickly it had all fallen apart. She hadn’t even been in Paris a full week, and here she was, at a police station, a murder suspect.
So they knew who she was. That was problematic, but explainable. She prepped the conversation in her mind, for when she was forced to speak the words aloud.
My husband was abusing me.
I ran away.
The new identity is for my safety so he can’t find me. I’ll be in danger if he does.
She listened to Inspector Badeau with half an ear. Deciding she’d wait for a lawyer to be present was self-preservation at its best, but Sutton’s grudging silence hadn’t stopped the woman from talking and talking and talking.
It wasn’t until Badeau said the name Ethan that Sutton tuned back in. My God, had she nodded off?
“Pardon?”
“Madame Montclair, are you listening to me at all?”
“It’s very late. I’m very tired. What were you saying?”
“Your husband was arrested earlier today.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Arrested? For what?”
“Murdering you.”
Sutton’s brows creased. What in the world? This was a trick, a trick to get her to talk. She said as much, then asked again for a lawyer.
When Badeau frowned, a small crease appeared on her forehead. Sutton had gotten used to this.
“Madame Montclair. Allow me a moment to speak frankly. I will admit, now that we have become aware of this information, something feels...off about this situation. According to the American police, your body was found, murdered and burned in a field outside the town in which you live. I was told the body was wearing your wedding rings. Your husband was arrested for murdering you.
“And yet, here you sit, very much alive, a murder suspect in your own right. There are two bodies here in the morgue, brutally murdered at Sacré-Coeur. We have video of you at the crime scene. We have the murder weapon that you were trying to dispose of. And there is this.”
She pushed a small gray-and-black box in a plastic bag toward Sutton.
“This was found in your apartment.”
It looked like a ring box. As she watched, Badeau unsealed the evidence bag, creaked open the box. Flakes of black fell onto the table. Inside was a small diamond engagement ring.
“The blood on this ring box also matches that on the knife. There is no more logical conclusion other than to assume it must have been taken from the Sacré-Coeur crime scene.”
“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
Badeau’s brow furrowed. “I thought you would claim as much.” She leaned forward, almost as if she was going to touch Sutton’s hand. “Madame, you are in very serious trouble. I implore you, explain yourself.”
Sutton shook her head.
Badeau sat for a moment, unmoving, unspeaking, then shrugged. “My superior is at this moment making a call to the police in your town to tell them we have you in our custody. And that we will be charging you with double homicide. It would not surprise me at all if a third charge will not be pending.”
“A third?” Sutton blurted out.
“Mais oui, madame. It seems quite logical to me that you attempted to obscure your flight from the United States by murdering someone, putting your rings on the poor soul’s finger, and fleeing here to Paris. Your murderous rage took you to Sacré-Coeur, where you killed the two innocent students, hid the murder weapon, then casually returned to the scene of the crime to lay flowers in an effort to make yourself look sympathetic. You are quite the dangerous creature.”
Sutton felt the blood draining from her head as the woman spoke, each word a nail to her heart. This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not how she meant for anything to go. A sick and deep nausea gripped her. She knew she was going to be ill. Sutton clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Please, the trash can.”
Badeau shoved it toward her with her foot.
But she didn’t get sick, just sat miserably, sweating, the gorge rising. She hadn’t eaten, there was nothing to throw up. Her stomach churned. What had happened? What was going on? A dead body, wearing her rings? She’d left them behind in Franklin, with...
Everything, crashing into place. The past month: the plans made, the precautions taken, the confidences given. The “plan” was for Sutton to get away from it all, to start a new life. To excise Ethan without the messiness of a separation and divorce. To get away from the man she was afraid of, the man she feared killed their child. Self-preservation, yes, but something more, something else. Punishment. For both of them. For what had happened, and what was to come.
Paris was the obvious choice. The place they’d talked about. The dream location. If you’re going to escape your life, you might as well do it right.
And now there were bodies, one wearing her rings, two more practically lying at her feet, and a horrible realization started deep within her.
Ethan, arrested.
Sutton, arrested.
Only one person knew what she’d planned. Had helped. Had encouraged. A shoulder to cry on, a compatriot in the plot. And now...
She had to get out of here. She had to get home. She had to fix this. Dear God, what had she done?
“Are you going to be unwell?” Badeau asked.
Sutton coiled her hair in her hand, lifting its mass off her neck, passing her hand quickly behind to fan herself. “Yes, I’m going to be unwell. How would you feel if someone accused you of murdering three people when you did no such thing?”
Badeau smiled, briefly. “It is warm in here. Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes, I would.”
The door opened and a bottle of Evian was handed in. Sutton opened it and drank. She felt better. It was hot in the stifling little room. She hadn’t had any sleep, or food, and she was tired of being harassed. It wasn’t smart, speaking without counsel; she could hear Joel Robinson’s voice in her head, warning her off. Actually, it was terribly reckless, but she was sick and scared, and being pushed was never something she could handle. And truth be told, Sutton’s specialty was recklessness.
There were more people listening to the interview; the water had been forthcoming almost immediately. She needed to be careful, but she needed to talk, to clear herself, to get home to Ethan. She needed him. He needed her. They were going to have to face this threat together.
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Sutton said.
“Are you willing to make a statement, for the record, then?”
“Yes. On one condition. When I finish, I want to call my husband.”
“We cannot guarantee anything, madame. But I agree to pass on a message to your husband should you answer our questions adequately.”
Sutton took a deep drink of the water. And then she told them. She told them everything.