OVER THE NEXT ten hours Mischa put it together.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrG3R9Zb5BK
She awoke in Le Mitrand, solitary confinement, handcuffed to the metal ring protruding from the wall. There was blood in her mouth, a burning pain in her ribs, and bruises on her wrists.
Her first instinct was to scream, but her vocal chords were worn raw. And she'd cried enough already. She'd shed enough tears to fill the Seine. That reservoir was now dry. And another emotion had overtaken her sadness: fear.
She gave herself a window of time, eyes squeezed shut, thinking about her dear friend Rihanna, her ex-officio neighbor for a time in Austria, all the times they'd shared a bottle of wine while their boyfriends were busy entertaining the European masses. She'd been more like a sister than a friend. She'd made mistakes, yes, but she hadn't deserved what came her way the last year. Mischa would remember her for her generous soul, her superb singing voice, her spirit, while the rest of the world would remember her as a fallen star, a cold and calculating killer.
But then, after two hours, Mischa took a deep breath and refocused her mind. Because if she was understanding things correctly, her own window of time would be closing soon as well.
It wouldn't do any good to mourn Rihanna if she was dead, too.
So she lay in the solitary cell and just thought.
They'd killed Rihanna as they had Felice, right around a shift change for the guards Rihanna's death was called at 2:40 p.m., but clearly she'd been poisoned earlier than that. No doubt the official investigation would place the time of her poisoning just before, or just after, the 2:00 p.m. shift change. Just as they had with Felice, the guards, once more, would have cover.
Two murders in six days. First her best friend inside this terrible place, the person Mischa saw on a daily basis. Then her best friend, period.
Not a coincidence. Not even subtle. Exactly the opposite. They were sending Mischa a message. They wanted her confession desperately, more intensely with each passing day, as her appeal quickly approached.
But they couldn't keep killing her friends. Rihanna, maybe, as she was the most clearly guilty of all of them and had never really disputed it. Anyone watching their trial remembered her as despondent, defenseless and defeated. The public wouldn't have trouble believing that Rihanna had killed herself, which she assumed would be the official story.
But Lindsay? Nicole Richie? If the Broken Dolls kept dropping right and left just before their appeal, even the most cynical of observers would raise an eyebrow.
The cell door buzzed open and, predictably, in walked the supreme asshole of the prison, Delannoy. Dressed, as usual, to the teeth, looking more like a greasy politician than anything else.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm2XSq1pDqo
"I will not waste our time with pleasantries," he informed Mischa.
What the hell difference did it make? He could be pleasant or unpleasant.
"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 is missing. It will be easier for us if you just confess."357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXSQV3lTbz4
Mischa coughed. Blood splattered onto her brown pants.
"I will not ask you a second time," he said.
"Good," said Mischa. "Then I won't have to keep ignoring you."
Nothing had changed. She bit her teeth furiously into her tongue to hold back the rage, to hid it from Delannoy. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.
"Or was it suicide?" Delannoy asked. "Each of you had access to the drugs. Either she killed herself or you poisoned her. Which was it, Mischa?"
Delannoy walked toward her, confidently enough given her restraints. She stood just 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."
God, wouldn't this bastard ever give up? But no. He was seeking the path of least resistance. A simple, signed confession from Mischa and all his troubles were over. She'd play along with the banter, but there was no way she was going to confess. It'd be a cold day in hell!
"Delannoy," said Mischa. "You' won't win. One day I'm going to walk out of this godforsaken place."
His eyes narrowed. Then his smile broadened. "Mademoiselle, you are the most famous criminal in the history of France. You'll never walk out of here."357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSZ4GfryzuY
It was clear to her now. He'd sent all the messages it was humanly possible to send. He couldn't kill another one of her friends.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDNXfpzRHHP
And he couldn't stop Mischa's appeal from starting, less than one month from now.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ8xiAqaWWLe
He was out of alternatives.357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVAlBOpRu2h
They were going to kill Mischa Barton in here!357Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡt8EnTIO4nl
