Chapter 110: Officers

Arthur

I did.

Told her about Alice's scream cutting through the house like a knife, about the way my blood had gone cold before I'd even started running. About finding Matthias on top of Ceci, about the way her body had been limp and unresponsive in ways that had nothing to do with alcohol consumption.

Told her about hitting him—didn't try to minimize it, didn't make excuses. How many times I'd hit him. How hard. That I'd known exactly what I was doing and had done it anyway.

Detective Clark took notes, her pen moving steadily across her notepad, and when I finished she looked up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"The suspect—Matthias Laurent—is currently unconscious in one of your guest rooms under police guard," she said. "When he wakes up, we'll be arresting him for attempted sexual assault, administering a controlled substance without consent, and several other charges. Given the evidence and the witness statements, the DA's office should have no problem getting an indictment."

"Good," I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being.

"As for Mrs. Grey—" Detective Clark paused, choosing her words carefully in that way people do when they're about to deliver news they know won't be well-received. "She's been extremely agitated since we detained her. Making accusations, demanding to speak with a lawyer, claiming she had nothing to do with what happened."

"She brought him here," I said, my voice hard. "She brought the wine. She's either complicit or criminally negligent. Either way, I want her charged."

"We're working on that." Detective Clark closed her notepad with a decisive snap. "But there's been a development you should know about."

Something in her tone made my spine straighten. "What kind of development?"

"Mrs. Grey is claiming she was acting under someone else's instructions." Detective Clark's eyes met mine, steady and serious, and I saw her brace herself slightly before continuing. "Your mother's instructions, specifically."

The words landed like a physical blow, even though some part of me had been expecting them since the moment I'd seen my mother and Evelyn standing together in the hallway, their faces going through identical calculations as they'd processed what had happened.

I took a breath. Let it out slowly. "Where is my mother now?"

"Downstairs in the library. We asked her to wait while we sorted through Mrs. Grey's allegations." Detective Clark paused, studying my face with those sharp eyes. "Would you like to be present for the questioning?"

I should have said no. Should have stayed upstairs with Ceci, should have let the police handle this without me. But the thought of my mother sitting in my library, in my house, after what had almost happened to the woman I loved—

"Yes," I said. "I want to hear this."

We set off.

She sat in one of the armchairs with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap, every inch the composed society matriarch who'd weathered countless social storms with grace and poise.

"Arthur," she said, her voice carrying just the right note of maternal concern. "I'm sure this is all a terrible misunderstanding. Once we clear everything up—"

"Mrs. Winston," Detective Clark interrupted smoothly, pulling out her notepad again as she took the chair across from my mother. "I need to ask you some questions about your relationship with Evelyn Grey."

My mother's expression didn't change. "We met over a decade ago, but haven’t kept in close contact for a long time. That's the extent of our acquaintance."

"Is that so." Detective Clark's tone was neutral, giving nothing away. "Because Mrs. Grey claims you've been in regular contact for several weeks. That you've been meeting in person and speaking on the phone frequently. That you, in fact, recruited her to carry out a specific plan targeting Miss Locke."

"That's absurd." My mother's voice sharpened slightly, the first crack in her composure. "Why would I do such a thing? Cecilia is my son's fiancée. I have no reason to wish her harm."

"Mrs. Grey claims you will give her a large sum of money," Detective Clark continued, reading from her notes. "A substantial sum, in exchange for gaining Miss Locke's trust, moving into her home, and creating an opportunity for—" she paused, her voice hardening slightly, "—for someone to assault her."

The words hung in the air, ugly and brutal, and I watched my mother's face carefully, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell.

"That's a lie," my mother said, but her voice had lost some of its certainty. "A desperate lie from a desperate woman trying to shift blame. I have no proof of any such arrangement because no such arrangement exists."

"Then you won't mind if we examine your phone records," Detective Clark said.

Something shifted in my mother's eyes—a flash of panic, quickly suppressed. "I—of course not. I have nothing to hide."

The door opened, and two officers entered with Evelyn Grey between them. She looked nothing like the woman who'd arrived at the party earlier—her hair was disheveled, her makeup smeared, her eyes wild with something that looked like genuine terror.

"Tell them!" she shouted the moment she saw my mother, her voice cracking with desperation. "Tell them the truth! You promised me money! You said if I did this, if I got Cecilia to trust me and then—"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," my mother said, her voice cold and controlled. "I've never promised you anything."

"You're lying!" Evelyn lunged forward, and the officers had to physically restrain her. "You called me! You met with me! You told me exactly what to do—first gain her trust, move into her apartment, then when that didn't work you said to come here, to the party, to put the drugs in her father's wine because you knew she'd drink it, she always gets emotional about her father—"

"Prove it," my mother said, and her voice was like ice. "Show me a single piece of evidence that any of what you're saying is true."

Evelyn's mouth opened and closed. Her eyes darted around the room, desperate, searching for something that wasn't there. "The phone calls—"

"What phone calls?" My mother's smile was thin and cruel. "Conversations in which I expressed sympathy for your situation, offered some friendly advice about reconnecting with your daughter. Nothing more."

"You're lying—"

"Am I?" My mother leaned forward slightly, her eyes hard. "Then show me the texts. The emails. Any written communication where I supposedly outlined this elaborate plan." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "You can't, can you? Because there aren't any."