of one of the biggest fashion houses in the world, both dying at the hands of their loved ones. One murdered by his brother, the other killed by the prodigal son. We’re the stuff legends are made of, if only we weren’t legends to begin with.
But as much as I can handle the press—indeed, I think I might even thrive on the attention—I don’t want Gabrielle to be exposed to it. It’s not fair for her to relive the trauma, especially as she had to recently. The police and our lawyer visited her in the hospital and questioned her about everything, just as they did me. Of course, we left out that Gabrielle intended to kill Gautier. That admission would only fuck up the whole process, and she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.
She did have to talk about what he did to her in every detail. I wanted to leave the room at some point, the rage that I had toward my father coming back in full force. It didn’t matter that he was dead. But I stayed because she needed me there, even though it killed me to relive it with her. Though it couldn’t have been nearly as bad as what she went through, over and over again.
I think the police are satisfied. The proof in the recordings is more than enough to ensure neither of us will be convicted, especially as now they have to reopen the case into my uncle’s death.
But the press? The media? They’re ravenous for Gabrielle, giving her such lovely nicknames as “The Murdering Maid” and “The Scandalous Servant.” Little do those papers know I’m about to sue all their asses for defamation, and I’m going to win. Killing Jones in self-defense isn’t even close to murder, and they know it, they just want to throw her under the bus and sell copies.
“The press?” she repeats, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “No. I don’t care what they say about me. I know what the truth is. And I’m okay with it. I’m worried about your family.”
Ah. That.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m nervous too.”
She chuckles. “That does not make me feel any better, Pascal. I know if you, of all people, are nervous, then this is going to be a doozy.” She pauses, and this time she squeezes my hand. “It’s going to be okay, you know.”
I don’t know that at all. The funeral starts in thirty minutes, and I haven’t seen any of my cousins or my brother. My mother and Jolie are outside, dressed head to toe in black, complete with matching veils. It’s almost comical, considering what my father thought of both of them. But my mother seems to thrive on it. The attention she’s getting is all she ever wanted, especially now that she gets a chance to be the weeping widow. She’s playing it up like a Broadway star.
When my mother first came to see us at the hospital, she was in complete shock. I couldn’t get a read on her, what she was really going through. She saw me with my bruised face from where Gabrielle clocked me, she saw Gabrielle in the hospital bed, tubes going into her. She had to ID my father’s body. She had to be questioned by the police, and of course her story is the truth.
It wasn’t until I was able to leave Gabrielle for a few hours to go home and put on some fresh clothes that I was able to talk to my mother in private.
To my surprise, I found her in her bedroom. When I first entered the house, there was nothing but silence. The air was still, like it was holding its breath. It felt like death, even though my father didn’t die there.
Then I heard it. The softest sobs.
I cautiously went up the stairs, not sure what I was going to find.
And there she was, on the couch in her room, crying into the velvet arm.
I stood there in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to do. I’d never had to comfort my mother before. My family isn’t like that.
Finally, she looked up.
And she smiled.
Even with her mascara running down her face and the smudged lipstick and her messy hair, she looked younger than I had ever seen her.
“Can’t you feel it?” she said, her eyes glassy from the tears.
I immediately looked around to see if she’d been drinking, but there was nary a bottle of