Page 216 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

The inspector reacts first, as though he can read my thoughts.

“If you’re trying to contact Gaspard Peltier, don’t bother. He was taken into custody this morning.”

The shock is immediate, absolute.

Gaspard. Arrested.

Then it’s over.

I’m alone. Completely alone.

Cold settles inside my chest, deeper and heavier than panic. An icy certainty replacing fear.

No leverage left. No plan left. No way out.

So I move forward.

One step, then another.

My movements no longer feel like my own. And the moment I cross the threshold, one thought imposes itself, clear and merciless:

I lost.

*

The room is bare.

A metal table. Three chairs. A camera in the corner—discreet, impossible to forget. A recorder sits in the center of the table. The light is harsh and flat, leaving nowhere for shadows to hide.

I sit perfectly still, my hands clasped in front of me.

The door opens. Sanders walks in with a file tucked under his arm. He doesn’t look at me right away. He takes his seat, opens the folder, and lets the silence settle between us.

He wants me to crack first. That won’t work on me.

Finally, he looks up.

“Did you sleep well, Ms. Fabre?”

“As well as anyone can in a place like this.”

There’s a knock at the door. My lawyer steps inside and sits beside me.

I relax—barely—but Sanders notices. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Good. Now that we’re all here.”

He switches on the recorder.

“Interview of Ms. Bianca Fabre. Nine forty-two a.m.”

“Ms. Fabre, do you stand by your previous statements?”

“What statements?”

“The ones in which you claimed you had nothing to do with the boat fire two years ago.”

“That’s correct.”