THERE WAS DARKNESS, even though the room was well lit. It was cold, even though the room was so humid that her shirt stuck to her chest and sweat dotted her forehead. The blood she tasted in her mouth, the searing pain in her ribs, the bruises on her wrists from the handcuffs that now chained her to the wall---those were real. Somewhere, as she swooned in and out of consciousness, she'd put up a fight. Bits and pieces flashed at me. Kicking and punching. Had she bit someone's arm? Probably. But what did it matter? What truly mattered anymore?633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRhoBwJlwOC
Mischa saw it now, what Rihanna saw. La Reddition. Surrender. Don't fight it, and it will be easier. La Reddition was extending her hand to her, but she hadn't shaken it yet.
Time had past. Best guess, about ten hours since her best friend had died.
The cell door opened to admit Delannoy, the warden at JRF. His dark hair was greased black, his tie was expertly knotted. He looked just like the politician he was. In America, Delannoy would be a city councilman planning a run for Congress. In France, he was a prison warden waiting for his chance to move up in the Ministry of Justice.
"I will not waste our time with pleasantries," he said, which seemed appropriate, giving that his employees had just murdered her best friend and beaten and shackled her.
Mischa looked around her cell, a room roughly the size of her walk-in closet back in the States, before she moved. Mildew coated the walls and ceiling. Dark spots littered the concrete floor, like oil stains in a garage----except these were the product of human, not vehicular, malfunction.
This was Le Mitard, the prison within a prison. What Americans would call "solitary confinement."
Delannoy didn't enjoy being here. He didn't want to get his manicured hands dirty. He had a purpose for visiting me, and he was about to get the point.
"Tell me what drug you used," he said. "It will be a simple matter of inventorying the contents of our drug cabinet to see what's missing. Easier for us if you'll just confess." His English, though heavily accented, was flawless. Most of the educated French spoke fluent English.
She coughed. Blood spattered onto her brown pants.
"I will not ask again," he warned.
"Good. So I won't have to keep ignoring you."
He blinked his eyes in concentration. His mind took a moment to track what she'd said. Then he grimaced. "Or was it suicide?" he asked. "Each of you had access to the drugs. Either she killed herself or you poisoned her. Which was it, Mischa?"
His delight in saying these words to her was evident. They both knew that neither of those alternatives was true. But he was making it clear that one of them would be the official story.
"Rihanna would never kill herself," she said. "Don't you ever say that she did!"
"Ah." He raised his chin. "So, murder."
He was trying to get a rise out of her. This guy could stay a prison warden forever. There was no better outlet for sadism.
"It is only natural that you would blame her for your predicament," he said.
She coughed again. The result was the same. She wiped her chin on her shoulder, not having her hands available to her.
"I'm not going to forget what happened today," said Mischa. "Someone's going to have to pay for this."
"I have a better idea," Delannoy walked toward her, confidently enough give her restraints. He stood a few feet away, just outside the reach of her legs should she kick out at him.
"Confess to the double murder," he said. "And what happened to your friend Rihanna will be ruled a suicide."
Sure. None of the four of them had confessed at trial. Delannoy wanted to be the hero who secured her confession, a piece of red meat he could toss to the (wo)man eating international media---and to the French voters, when the time came.633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDzlHVKZg7P
"What if I tell you to go to hell?" she asked.
"You've already committed two murders. A third? We cannot imprison you beyond your natural life, now, can we? But there are other ways to punish, Mischa." He walked back toward the cell door. "I'll give you forty-five days to think about it."633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGUvXfaY4VU
"I think you mean thirty, Delannoy." A French law had been passed recently, limiting time in Le Mitard to thirty-day stretches. But everyone at JRF knew there were ways around that restriction.633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRoyR4BPYw8
"Did I say forty-five? Ah, well." The corners of his mouth curled up. He rapped on the door with his knuckles. It popped open with a buzz.633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmN18dGS5w6
"Delannoy," said Mischa. "You won't win. One day I'm going to walk out of this place."633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsJtqVhyhg5
HIs eyes narrowed. Then his smile broadened. "Madamoiselle, you are the most famous criminal in the history of France. You'll never walk out of here."633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7w05wtFlub
With that, Delannoy disappeared. The lighting, controlled from outside the cell, went out, plunging her into darkness that would last for thirty days. Or maybe forty-five.633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ35mT2ak0oR
Or maybe for the rest of her life.633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrjYenYtoiT
All because of two decadent nights in Monte Carlo.......633Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqZf4qsrWRK
