Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(64)

“But . . . ,” I say slowly, not wanting to overturn this rock, knowing what could be crawling underneath, “if it wasn’t a heart attack . . . what was it? Aneurysm?”

“No. If it wasn’t a heart attack . . . then I think maybe someone murdered him.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “M-murder?” I repeat.

And yet the moment the word awkwardly leaves my mouth, there feels like truth to it.

Of course, murder.

How very fucking obvious who would have done it and why.

“I know it sounds . . . dumb,” she says with a nervous laugh. “Oh, it sounds so dumb just to say it, and I’m saying it to you, and I don’t even know you. But . . . I can’t help but feel that, deep inside me, that this whole thing was planned to get my father out of the picture, to make Gautier the head of the company, to give them all the control. To run our traditions and everything we’ve bled over into the ground.”

“So you think your uncle murdered his own brother?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Gautier is a horrible person, but I can’t really imagine him murdering his own brother. It seems too ghastly.”

“What about your aunt? His wife?”

“Camille? Oh, she’s a witch. But as nasty as she is, she’s not ambitious or conniving enough. To be honest, she lacks the brains.”

“So then it would be someone who would benefit . . . your cousins.”

Her lips press hard against each other, and she seems to wrestle with what she’s about to say. “That’s the only thing I can think of. And I don’t want to.”

“Would it be Pascal or Blaise?”

“You know so much about them.”

“I know a lot by now.”

She sighs. “You know what? I shouldn’t even talk about it at all. I mean, it’s ghoulish. It’s fucked-up. I’m essentially accusing a family member of murder, and that’s not a thing that’s taken lightly. Forget I said anything.” She gets out of her seat.

“You’re leaving?” I ask her. “You can’t just come here and bring up murder and then leave. Jesus.”

She gives me a tight smile. “I’ve said too much, and I’ve burdened you with problems that aren’t yours.”

“But they’re your problems. Therefore, they’re Olivier’s problems. Therefore, they’re my problems.”

She raises a brow at me as she heads to the door. “You’re very sweet, you know that? I think you might be a little too sweet for this family.”

“But you’re from the good side,” I say to her as she opens the door.

She steps out into the hall and glances at me. “Good side, bad side. Sooner or later we’re all going to bleed into each other. And who knows what side will remain.” She gives me a short wave. “Tell Olivier I stopped by. Please tell him to call me. I need him now more than he knows.”

I nod. “I promise.”

And then she’s out the door, and I’m left alone again in Olivier’s apartment with an even bigger bombshell in my hands. I feel like if I put it down for one minute, it might just blow the whole apartment away.

Murder.

Is that really what happened?

When I saw Pascal, Gautier, and Ludovic leaving the study the night of the ball, right before Pascal came to talk to me, had Ludovic been given something by one of them? By both of them?

Did I witness a murder?

Or is everyone so desperate to find someone and something to blame, they’ll go for the easiest scapegoat?

A shiver runs through me, and I head right over to the door, sliding the chain across and locking the dead bolt.



I’m already in bed when Olivier gets home. It’s not even that late. It’s just that after Seraphine left, I felt that bed was the safest and most comforting place to be.

And let’s be honest—I’m exhausted.

Even ignoring all the talk of murder, which left me extremely on edge, my brain is finally processing what is really going on.

I missed my flight.

I’m officially staying here.

This is it.

I’m in it for the long run.

In a foreign country, where I don’t know the language, where my bank account is quickly approaching the negatives, I am here to stay.

Completely relying on Olivier, when in fact he’s the one who needs to rely on me. He needs someone to help shoulder the burden, so I’m shouldering his while dealing with my own shit.

So yeah, exhausted enough to curl up beneath the covers and sleep.

Olivier seems just as exhausted as I feel, probably even more so.

He stops at the foot of the bed, the light from the hall illuminating him from behind as he starts to undress. “Désolé,” he whispers, his voice sounding gruff. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I thought you would still be up.”

“I’m tired.”

“You aren’t alone,” he says, pulling back the covers and sliding in beside me. Naked, as he usually is at bedtime.

I don’t read much into it. We haven’t had sex since before the ball. It hasn’t been on my mind, and I can guarantee it hasn’t been on his.

He sighs and sinks back into the pillow, his eyes closed.

“How was work?” I ask softly.