Read Chapter 28: The Interrogation Room

The cold of the holding cell seeped through Camille’s soaked clothes. Her wrists ached from the zip ties they’d cut off only after she’d stopped fighting. The warehouse district rain had done her no favors—she looked less like a fugitive mastermind and more like a drowned alley cat.

Delorme sat across from her, a folder of papers spread on the metal table between them like a hand of losing cards. His mustache twitched as he read, then reread, then flipped a page and squinted.

“This audit trail is too clean,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “It’s a parody of accounting.”

Camille let the silence sit for a beat. She needed him leaning forward, not back.

“You pulled it from Petiot’s own files,” she said. Her voice was hoarse—the service shaft had been tight, dusty, and she’d spent the last hour convincing two uniforms she wasn’t armed. “He planted my father’s financial records to make me look like the ring’s financier. But look at the dates on the invoices. They post-date the thefts they supposedly paid for.”

Delorme’s eyebrow twitched. He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and tapped the page. “Reconcile that.”

“I can’t. But the microfilm can.”

He looked up. “The locket.”

Camille nodded, nudging her chin toward the evidence bag on the chair beside her. The locket sat inside, still crusted with vault grime. She’d handed it over without a fight—what choice did she have? But she’d watched Delorme’s face when he’d pried it open and seen the glint of microfilm inside, not a daughter’s photo.

“My father documented the ring’s insurance fraud for two years before they killed him,” she said. “Dates, amounts, fake certificates, laundering routes. The vault under the cosmetics warehouse is a staging point. If you hit it now, you’ll find crates of originals still marked for shipment. The hard drive with the digital ledger is in my partner’s hands.”

“Your partner,” Delorme repeated, tasting the word. “The art dealer who broke a policeman’s jaw at a public gala.”

“Who saved my life. Twice.” Camille leaned forward, feeling the bruise on her ribs press against the table’s edge. “Étienne is not your enemy. He’s halfway to the airport by now, risking his neck to stop the ring leader from fleeing the country. Every minute you keep me in this chair is a minute Pierre Petiot’s private jet gets closer to the runway.”

Delorme’s jaw worked. He studied her, and she saw the calculation behind his eyes—the same calculus she used when assessing a painting’s provenance. He was trying to decide if she was a genuine brushstroke or a clever forgery.

“Commissioner Vasseur has publicly supported the Petiot collection,” he said carefully. “If I raid a cosmetics warehouse based on the word of a woman he’s accused of being the ring’s architect, and she’s wrong, I’m finished.”

“If I’m right,” Camille said, “and you don’t, you’re worse than finished. You’re complicit.”

The words hung in the air. Delorme’s pen stopped tapping.

A uniformed officer knocked and entered, bending to whisper in Delorme’s ear. Camille watched his face shift—not surprise, but something closer to resignation. The officer withdrew, leaving a single piece of paper on the table.

Delorme read it, then slid it across to Camille. It was a crime-scene photograph: the Caravaggio, ruined, its canvas slashed and burned from the inside out. Her work. She felt a complicated twist in her chest—a masterpiece destroyed, but a message delivered.

“My evidence team pulled this from the vault an hour ago,” Delorme said quietly. “Before the hit squad torched the place.” He paused, folding his hands. “They found traces of accelerant, bullet casings, and a wall safe chained to a support column that looks professionally drilled. That’s not random theft. That’s a cleanup operation.”

“Petiot knows we found it,” Camille said. “He’s burning the evidence and running. The window is closing.”

Delorme stared at the photograph for a long moment. Then he slid his chair back, stood, and clicked his radio.

“All units, this is Inspector Delorme. Full tactical response to the cosmetics warehouse on Rue de la Gare. Establish perimeter and await entry orders. Priority: secure all personnel, especially female civilians. Suspects are armed and likely wearing private security identifiers.” He clicked off and looked at Camille. “You’ll ride with me. If this is a con, you’ll enjoy the cell more than the back of that van.”

“If it’s not,” Camille said, getting to her feet, “then you’ll have your collar. The real one.”

---

Étienne pressed the phone to his ear, one hand on the steering wheel, weaving through the wet six a.m. streets toward Le Bourget. The caller on the other end was scratchy, old-wave static.

“She’s with Delorme,” the voice said. “They just pulled out together, full escort.”

Étienne exhaled. “Good. That buys us time. What about the plane?”

“Filed flight plan to Geneva. Departs in forty minutes. Petiot’s car is already on the tarmac. He’s got two men, and he’s not planning to come back.” A pause. “You owe me a vintage, Marchetti.”

“You’ll get it.” Étienne ended the call and pressed the accelerator harder.

The hard drive sat on the passenger seat beside him, its metal surface cool and indifferent to the weight it carried. Papa’s evidence. Papa’s murder. And Claire—no, Camille—with the inspector who’d nearly cuffed her for a crime the man across the tarmac had actually committed.

He thought of her in the vault, face smeared with dust and brick, still moving forward even when the alarms bled through the walls. She had destroyed a Caravaggio to save a sister and a truth. There was a reckoning in her that he recognized because he shared it.

The private terminal appeared through the rain. Parked on the strip, engines already chewing idle, was a white Gulfstream with the Petiot Holdings starburst on its tail.

Étienne killed the engine, pocketed the hard drive, and stepped out into the cold.

The rain had stopped, but the wind carried kerosene and salt. He walked toward the plane, hands visible, a man with nowhere left to hide.

The cabin door opened.

Pierre Petiot descended the stair, immaculate despite the hour, flanked by a man whose hand rested inside his jacket.

“Étienne,” Petiot called, almost warmly. “I assumed you’d run the other direction.”

Étienne kept walking. “You assumed wrong.”