Authors: Eileen Cook
With Malice (20 page)
“Thank you for meeting with us again,” Detective Alban said. Detective Marco didn't even look up from the file in his lap.
I didn't bother responding. I hadn't been given a choice. Evan and my parents had shown up at the hospital last night to tell me the news. The U.S. government wasn't going to protect me. The Italians were going to make me return to face charges.
“We'll be filing an appeal,” Evan said. He removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves like he intended to have a street brawl right then and there over the issue.
Detective Alban shrugged as if to say we were free to do whatever we wanted. “We have agreed to wait on making the arrest until Wednesday to allow Miss Charron to finish her program here.”
My heart went into free fall. I couldn't believe this was actually happening. Evan had warned me that they would try to intimidate me, but he'd said I shouldn't worry. He insisted there were still a lot of things we could argue before I would have to go to Italy.
My gaze slid over to Evan. He was wearing a suit that likely cost as much as my first year in college was going to run my parents. The creases in his pants were so sharp you could have used them to shave cheese. He was the kind of lawyer designed to make his clients feel confident. What bad thing could happen if this guy was on your side? What made me nervous was that the two Italian detectives didn't look even the tiniest bit worried. If anything, they looked smug.
A thought crept across my consciousness like an oil stain. What if Evan wasn't really confident? He might have been telling me what I wanted to hear so that I wouldn't make a run for it. There was likely some kind of bail or fee. If I ran, my dad would be on the hook, and while Evan might say he was my lawyer, there was no doubt in my mind that his allegiance belonged first to my dad.
“We require your passport,” Detective Alban said.
My mom pulled it out of her purse and passed it over. Evan had told us this would happen. He'd made it sound like this was standard procedure, but I'd seen the truth online. They thought I was a flight risk.
The
Justice for Simone
blog had a picture of my dad's house, along with inside shots, including one of the posh garden and the lavish master bathroom that had been on the real estate site when my dad and Lydia bought the place. The high ceilings, fancy crown moldings, granite countertops, and six-burner Viking stove, not to mention the picture of the huge wine cellar, stood in sharp contrast next to the photo of Simone's house. Maybe it was the lighting in the picture, but it looked even more run-down than I remembered it.
They had another picture of me too. Someone must have taken it during rehearsals for the play. I was wearing my costume, and I had on bright red lipstick. The photo had caught me midlaugh so my mouth was open wide. It looked like I was cackling. I looked like “that person.” The kind of person who talks during a movie, who cheats at Monopoly, who drops food on the pages of a library book and just turns it in, the person who uses the last of the toilet paper and lets the next person air dry. The kind of person you hate.
They'd used one of Simone's senior pictures. It had diffuse lighting, so she appeared vaguely angelic and soulful. She could have been the poster child for world peace.
“We're partnering with a legal firm in Florence,” Evan said. He slid a paper across the desk. “This is their contact information.”
Detective Alban passed it directly to Detective Marco without even looking at it. He wasn't impressed. “We are hoping to book flights for Thursday,” he said.
My heart sped up. My mom put her hand on my shoulder as if she planned to hold me in place to keep them from taking me.
“I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Evan said.
“If you wish to file an appeal, your team in Italy can do that,” Detective Alban said. “The U.S. government has cleared Miss Charron for extradition.”
“No. What the courts said is that Ms. Charron is cleared once she has finished rehabilitation.” Evan placed a letter in front of the detectives. “Ms. Charron's treatment team feels that she requires further support.”
The only sign that the detective wasn't happy was a twitch above his eyebrow. Detective Marco burst into the conversation. “The doctors have released her. She is leaving the hospital on Wednesday.” He slammed his hand on the table and we all jumped.
“No,” Evan said strongly. “Her treatment team had
hoped
she'd be released this Wednesday, but they now feel she requires further medical care.” Evan gestured to the paper he'd already put down. “This is a letter from her physician, Dr. Weeks, outlining what care she will be receiving in the coming weeks.”
I stared down at the table. I felt guilty that Dr. Weeks had had to lie for me, even though I'd never asked her to. Evan had done that. Of course he hadn't been that blunt. He more implied that if I were to stay hospitalized for a while, it would keep me out of jail while he argued the appeal against sending me to Italy. It hadn't exactly left a lot of options for her. I was supposed to do outpatient therapy, but they'd shifted it to inpatient.
“This is a delay tactic,” Detective Alban said angrily.
I winced. I half expected him to stand, whirl me around, cuff me, and drag me out of there, but instead he and Evan were staring each other down across the table.
“We will take this to the court,” Detective Marco said.
“Of course,” Evan said.
“Give us a moment.” Detective Alban leaned closer to Detective Marco, and the two of them began to talk in hushed voices. I didn't know why they bothered to whisper; none of us spoke enough Italian to know what they were saying.
“If there is nothing elseâ” Evan said, starting to stand.
Detective Alban motioned for him to wait. “We have a question for Miss Charron.”
Evan looked at me as if to make sure I was okay and then agreed with a short nod. “Go ahead.”
“You remember this from our last meeting?” Detective Alban put the knife on the table.
Of course I remembered. I had a head injury, but I wasn't likely going to forget the accusation that I'd stabbed my best friend. I opened my mouth to agree, but I was suddenly sure the word wouldn't be there, so I nodded instead.
“And you say you've never seen it,” Detective Alban said.
“Not that I remember.” It looked like we were going to play the game where he asked question after question, as if he expected my memory to suddenly drop into place.
“Then can you explain why, in addition to Simone's blood, your DNA and fingerprints are on it?”
I heard my dad suck in a breath. I stared at the detective. I wanted to pause reality, rewind it, and play it again, as if I might hear better the second time.
“What?” I whispered. It had to be a lie to trick me into admitting something. It wasn't possible. They were trying to frame me.
“Tell us why your fingerprints are on the knife that was used to kill Simone.”
“You remember slaughter of your friend?” Detective Marco barked. “Surely you remember that?”
I swallowed hard against the wave of bile that was creeping up my throat. I stabbed Simone? The image of every slasher horror movie I'd ever seen flashed through my mind. The arch of a knife above someone, the sick wet meaty sound as it slammed into a body.
I pushed back. I had to get out of there. I had to get away from the knife, from all these staring, accusing eyes. For a split second, I forgot I was still in a cast, and I went to run out of the room. I took a half step and then collapsed on the floor. A bolt of white-hot pain shot down my leg, and I screamed. My mom and dad were at my side in an instant, trying to lift me back into the chair, but it was as if there were no bones in my body. I slumped forward, crying. Not ladylike tears either, but deep sobbing gasps, with snot running down my face.
“Step outside,” Evan yelled at the two detectives.
“What the hell are you trying to do?” my dad snapped at Detective Marco.
My parents helped me back into my chair. I still wanted to leave. I needed to get out. I flailed around to get back up. When my mom stepped in front of the chair, my arm whipped around and smacked her in the face. I heard her grunt in pain before she stumbled back.
“Someone get a doctor,” Evan called out.
My dad was now the one holding me in place. I knew he was trying to keep me from hurting myself, but I couldn't stop struggling. It was as if I couldn't get a decent breath and they were smothering me. I was trying to scream, but the sound coming out of my mouth was this weird grunting.
An instant later, there was a nurse in the room who instantly took charge, calling out “Code White,” into the hall. With me under control, Evan grabbed the elbow of Detective Marco and shoved him toward the door.
The knife was still on the table. Through the thick plastic bag I could see the dried blood on the blade. Black dots filled my vision, starting at the edges and rushing toward the middle. The last thing I saw was Detective Alban smiling as he walked past me.
My mom rubbed my back in small circles, the way she used to when I was little and sick. One of the nurses came in and placed a glass of water on the table for me. I overheard my mom whisper something to my dad, then the door shut, leaving us alone. I could tell he was freaked out by my reaction. Our family wasn't supposed to be the kind that got hysterical. As soon as I'd come to, I realized he was disappointed. Once again, I wasn't the kid he really wanted. He must hope that his new boys would be the do-over. Evan wasn't happy either. He didn't like that the detectives had gotten to me. He wanted a more stoic client. I'd let everyone down, but I'd never expected that news. My fingerprints were on the knife.
Mom and I sat in silence, the only sound the loud ticking of the clock on the wall.
“How are you doing?” my mom finally asked.
I shrugged. “What will happen if I have to go to Italy?” They'd managed to delay everything, but I could see the writing on the wall, the knife on the table, so to speak. This wasn't going to go away. It wasn't going to magically get better just because I wanted it to. My daddy wasn't going to buy me out of this problem.
She leaned back in her chair. “Your dad and I have talked about it. I'll take a leave from my job and travel there. The lawyer there said there are short-term apartment rentals. That way I can support you and keep your dad up to date with what's happening.”
I nodded, grateful. It would be good to have a regular visitor. I was going to have to toughen up. I couldn't keep talking about how I wouldn't make it if I went to jail. I wasn't going to have a choice. If rehab had taught me anything, it was that people were a lot tougher than they thought they were. Whining about it didn't help. You either lay down and died or kept going. Those were your options.
“Your dad would want to be there too, but with his job, it's more complicated. In exchange for me going over, he'll cover my costs.” I could tell she was trying to put a positive spin on everything and it was exhausting her.
I started sniffing. I wanted to put my head down on the table and cry. I could already imagine what would happen if this process was dragged out for years. She wouldn't be able to stay forever. I'd be alone.
“It's going to be okay,” Mom said. “You heard what Evan said. Those detectives are making it sound worse than it is. Your fingerprints could have gotten on that knife a whole bunch of ways.” She waved her hand in the air like she didn't even have the time to list them all. “You could have struggled with Simone and taken it from her, or if the knife is from the kitchenette where you were staying, you could have used it to make a snack. There's no way to date when you touched the knife. And who knows why it was in the car. Heck, maybe Simone wasn't stabbed. Maybe she fell on the knife.”
I couldn't even look at her. Even she had to understand how absurd her theory sounded.
“Evan was telling your dad and me that the Italian police have a history of incompetence. He's got some questions about how evidence was collected at the scene. There were emergency people in and out of the car, so who knows how that might have screwed things up.” Mom tucked her hair behind her ear.
“I didn't do this,” I said.
“Of course you didn't,” Mom said. She patted my hand. “The police aren't going to be able to prove a thing.”
That's when I knew beyond any doubt she believed I'd done it.
