clean bill of health only a few weeks earlier. Some people, such as my cousin Seraphine and eventually my own brother, Blaise, put the blame on my father. They accused him of murdering Ludovic in cold blood in order to take over the company.
They were taken care of. Blaise and Seraphine dropped the accusations in exchange for a new life in Dubai. If they didn’t, well, they knew they would pay with their lives. It’s never been a secret that my father is ruthless and has probably committed more crimes than I can even start to imagine. But I never knew he would actually go after family like that. That when it came down to it, he’d have my own cousin murdered rather than let her spread her version of the truth.
I assume Seraphine wouldn’t have forgotten that, which is why the letter is confusing. She and Blaise have been in Dubai for about five months now. (I suppose I’m happy for them, though I still find the fact that they’re together—even though they aren’t blood related—rather distasteful.) Why would she start up again with these accusations when she has so much to lose? And why do it in such a hokey way when she’s never had a problem saying this to our faces?
There’s only one way to find out.
I get up from my desk and look outside the door. The hall is empty. The house is quiet except for a faint murmur of the television in my mother’s room down the other wing.
The maison Dumont is a peculiar setup. The sprawling estate is the same house I grew up in. I know a lot of people wonder why I, at thirty-one years old, still live here, even though I own several apartments in Paris and property around the world. But aside from it being the place I feel most comfortable, the house is practically a castle. I live in the east wing, with my own office and bedroom and private entrance at the side of the house, and I have more than enough privacy.
At least I did.
Ever since Blaise left, my father has become increasingly suspicious of me, as if I’m about to accuse him next. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bug somewhere in my office, which is why I head next door to my bedroom to make the call.
I sit down on the couch and dial, even though it’s late here and even later in Dubai. It rings and rings, and I’m prepared to hang up when Blaise finally answers.
“What do you want?” he asks in a tired voice. I must have woken him up.
“Is this how we’re greeting each other now?” I ask.
Silence. Then: “What do you want, Pascal?”
Blaise and I were never close. I used to think that maybe we were, if only because of proximity. We’re brothers and we’re close in age, but that’s about the extent of it all. The distance between us only became more apparent in the last year, and ever since he left for Dubai, it’s almost irreparable. Not that I care much. I wouldn’t have gotten that far in my life had I cared about people like I should.
“I got a letter,” I tell him.
More silence.
I go on. “I believe Seraphine sent it.”
He clears his throat. “A letter? What does it say?”
“Ask Seraphine if she knows. She’s there in bed with you, isn’t she?”
“What does it say, Pascal?” he repeats, and I can hear Seraphine in the background saying my name in surprise.
“It says, ‘The world will know what you’ve done.’ Did Seraphine send it or not?”
He lets out a sour laugh. “I don’t even have to ask her to know she didn’t. You think she’d start acting out I Know What You Did Last Summer?”
His laugh irks me. “I know the note is theatrical,” I tell him stiffly. “Which is why I figured it was her.”
“What is going on?” I hear Seraphine say. “Are you talking about me?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” Blaise tells her. “Pascal received a letter, he thought it was from you. Something vaguely threatening. Perhaps someone else out there thinks he had something to do with your father’s murder.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” I remind him carefully.
“And yet you’re not disputing my choice of words. ‘Murder.’ How is it living in that house of horrors, knowing full well what our father is capable of? How does that sit with your conscience?”