Wishing Well(75)
“Fine,” she said, handing over the recorder and tapes. “But this doesn’t mean what he tells me is private. I still have an article to write.”
The attorney nodded. “I understand. You’ll just have to do so from memory rather than having his words documented on tape.”
Without a recording, Meadow wouldn’t be able to prove that what she wrote was fact, she wouldn’t be able to verify Vincent’s words if someone were to question their accuracy. And perhaps that’s exactly what Vincent wanted.
Maybe it was a good thing they wouldn’t allow her to enter the room with a pen. She wasn’t sure she could resist jumping across the table and stabbing him in the eye.
“Thank you, Ms. Graham. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.”
The attorney sauntered off in one direction while Meadow walked in the other, the guards shaking their heads as she approached. One followed her toward interview room three, his voice low when he commented, “Mercier really is a bastard, isn’t he? Asshole’s dying tomorrow but still feels the need to screw with people.”
Meadow didn’t bother to respond, her focus on one man alone, a man who sat grinning on his side of the table as the guard let her into the room. Ignoring the quiet click of the door closing, Meadow took her seat, her arms crossing over her chest in defiance of Vincent’s amusement.
“That’s a really pretty smile you have for a dead man.”
Laughter burst from his lips, actual joy beaming behind his glittering green eyes. “Ah, Meadow. Don’t be mad,” he finally said once he had calmed enough to speak. “There are reasons for everything I do. You’ll learn that eventually.”
When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Have you decided what questions you’d like to ask today? Seeing as I’m dead tomorrow, I certainly hope you’ve determined which ones are the most important.”
Unclenching her teeth, she glared across the table at him. “I think you already know what my first question will be. I asked it twice yesterday, both times wherein you refused to answer.”
Shaking his head, he grinned. “You’ll have to excuse me for my forgetfulness. With death on the horizon, I can’t seem to think of much else. Please remind me, what is it you would like to know?”
Her fingers curled into her palms, her nails cutting crescent shaped gouges into her skin. “Did you kill Penny? Or was it Maurice?”
Sighing, Vincent relaxed back into his seat, his eyes locking to hers. “I find it funny that you keep asking a question to which you already know the answer. Or, at least you think you know.”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if he’d returned to the years his memories took him. With a voice far more somber than anything she’d heard in the past few days, he said, “When I was a child, I used to adore the hours I spent with Maman reading fairytales-“
“Oh, cut the shit,” Meadow burst out. “I don’t have time for your musings about pretty stories.”
“I think you do, Meadow. At least if you truly want to know this last part. But, I’m actually glad you interrupted me, I was skipping ahead. Tell me, what details do you know about the day your sister died?”
“Are you asking me that so you can formulate a better lie?”
He grinned. “No. In this, I will be honest. I just find it funny that you seem to think it wasn’t me who killed your sister. Now, how would you know that? It’s not like Penny could record the events of her own death in the diary I sent you. So why do you think the details are any different than what the police know?”
Vincent was edging too close to the secret Meadow had kept close to her chest, the only weapon she had left to use against him. “The police report claimed that two people died that night, that it was due to a lover’s spat the deaths occurred. You didn’t love Penny, not according to the diary-“
“The diary ,” he repeated, soft laughter shaking his shoulders. “Right. Obviously that’s the only way you could possibly know this.”
“Two people died,” she argued, “one quite viciously from what I recall reading. But viciousness isn’t your style, Vincent. You are far more controlled than to lose yourself to that type of violence. And if what the reports say is true, than it wouldn’t have been you to kill both Penny and your friend, Barron. However, a man who was jealous, a man such as Maurice, would be able to tear another man apart so cruelly. He had no control over his instincts.”
Breathing deeply, Vincent held the air in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling. “Yes,” he agreed, “Maurice was quite capable of that.”
“So,” Meadow continued, “I believe Maurice killed her because he thought she was with another man. He killed her because she was the only woman he loved, she was his damn obsession, and he mistook seeing her with someone else and slaughtered not just her, but the other man. Perhaps that is why he was so devastated that he took his own life.”
A flicker of remorse flashed across his expression, there and then gone, human and then cold, unfeeling monster. “Back to what I was saying,” he finally replied, his smile stretching again. “The reason I always loved fairytales was because of their perfect timing, despite how unrealistic that timing might be. And this story is a fairytale, I hope you know that.”
Rolling her eyes, Meadow knew shoving Vincent along would only make him dig his heels deeper in refusal to budge. Lounging back in her seat, she glared at him, waiting for whatever point it was that he wanted to make.