Disarm

by Halle, Karina

  I think Pascal knows this and that’s why we’re in here. After he pours me a drink from the bottle, making sure to top off his as a show of trust that it’s not full of poison—as if that’s a real fucking thing normal brothers worry about—he goes around the mahogany desk at the end and brings out the cane.

  “Remember this?” Pascal asks, stabbing the air with it. “Remember what he used to do with this?”

  “Vaguely,” I reply, sniffing the cognac. So far so good.

  “You knew about this, right?” He puts his glass down on the desk, careful to use a coaster, then twists the brass horse head of the cane around and around until it comes loose and pulls it out. The head is attached to a long, skinny sword.

  “All this time I wondered why our father had this cane since he never limped, never had any ailment,” Pascal says, holding the sword up to the light. “Turns out he just liked having a weapon. I suppose we’re lucky he didn’t use this end on us.”

  This catches me off guard for a moment. Us. All this time I assumed whatever violence my father showed toward me wasn’t directed at Pascal. Pascal was the golden boy.

  “Is that why I’m here? To discuss Father and his weapons?”

  “Not exactly,” he says, sliding the sword back inside the cane with one fluid motion. “He doesn’t know you’re here, and I’d like to keep it between us.”

  Okay. This has my interest.

  Still, my brother is as trustworthy as a snake. I have to be cautious.

  “So then why am I here?”

  He sits down behind the desk and leans back in the leather chair, looking both like he does it all the time and also like a child imitating his father. “I need a favor from you.”

  I raise my brows. This is a new one. “What favor?”

  He licks his lips slowly before they twist up into a crooked smile. “I need you to keep an eye on Seraphine.”

  The sound of her name jars me, making me blink. “Seraphine? Why?”

  I mean, what the fuck now? Just last week my father called me into his office and expressed concern over my cousin’s role in the business. He says he fears that the death of her father is too much for her and she’s drowning in her responsibilities.

  If I’m being honest here, I think Seraphine is handling everything exceptionally well. She’s a hothead, so she’s often fighting against my father and Pascal, especially since they want to change the company in so many ways. I don’t blame her for the pushback—she’s sticking up for her father’s legacy that way. But I also know that we’re making more money now and with it, the perks. I know I’ve been given the opportunity to completely take over the health and beauty department if that’s what I want. But it will mean Seraphine will have to quit or get fired in the process.

  “We can’t have an outlier on our team, and that’s what she is,” my father had said. “This company is ours now. We need to be a united front. We need to sweep away the past. My brother had a good heart but bad business sense. This is the dawning of a new age for us, for our legacy, for our name, for the brand.”

  The irony is that I think I’m more of an outlier than Seraphine is. My father and brother just don’t know that yet.

  “I have concerns,” Pascal eventually says, taking a deliberate sip of his drink.

  “Father already talked to me about her. He said she’s slipping. I’m supposed to guide her. I’m guessing he wants me to replace her.”

  He nods slowly. “Yes. But this has nothing to do with that. And it’s just between you and I. Nothing to do with Father, you understand?”

  I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate, my patience being tested. Despite disagreeing with my father about Seraphine, I don’t like how tangled our lives are becoming lately. Once upon a time, I rarely saw her at the office. Now I see her all the time, and my feelings toward her are far too fucking complicated to try to make sense of. All I know is, the less I see her, the better off I am.

  “Has Seraphine confided in you lately?” he asks.

  I let out a sour laugh. “Confide? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she hates me, just as much as she hates you.”

  Pascal hums, musing it over as he runs his finger over the rim of his glass. “I’m not too sure about that . . .”

  And then my world spins as a memory slams into me. One night in Mallorca, where everything changed and then changed again. I can’t be sure that Pascal even knows what happened, but I’ve always erred on the side of caution.

  “Well, she hasn’t,” I tell him, my voice getting sharper as this conversation goes on. “So then what?”

  “I was just wondering, that’s all. You’ve been working together so closely.”

  “We barely exchange words. She doesn’t even look at me.”

  “I suppose I can believe that. It will only work in our favor.”

  “Just what are you getting at?”

  He stares at me for a moment. You’d think after growing up with Pascal, I would know how to read him, but half the time I don’t. There’s too much going on in his head at once, and I’m not sure if his thoughts make any sense to him.

  He straightens up and fishes his phone out of his pocket, crooking his finger at me. “Come here. I need to show you something.”

  This can’t be good.

  Still, I get up and walk around the desk as he displays the phone to me. On the glass screen, a grainy video plays. It’s of a car driving down a vineyard, dust rising from the wheels. The light isn’t good, so I can’t even make out the car, but it parks and someone steps out.

  Then the screen switches to another shot, this time of a bridge over a stream and a woman walking over it, looking around nervously.

  Seraphine.

  “What is this?” I ask him.

  “Renaud’s winery, Château la Tour.”

  Where the masquerade ball was held last year. Where my uncle died in front of everyone.

  The screen then switches to Seraphine using a key at the back door and walking inside.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him. “So what? She’s not allowed to be there?”

  “Keep watching,” he says, seeming amused by all this.

  And so I do. She definitely is looking cagey. Even though the footage is dark and grainy, her mannerisms are nervous, and she’s looking around and over her shoulder as if she’s going to be caught.

  She goes up the stairs to the third floor and then enters a room that looks completely unfamiliar to me. Sits down at a desk and flicks on a computer. The rest of the footage is of her just sitting there and flicking through changing screens, though I can’t make out what it is she’s watching.

  “I don’t get it,” I tell him. “Why are we watching this? More than that, why are you recording this?”

  “You truly aren’t that bright, are you?” he says as he stares up at me, contempt written all over his face. “Seraphine went all the way to the castle the other day. Arrived in the morning, so she must have left Paris in the middle of the night. She acts like she might be watched or followed, which means she’s doing something she shouldn’t, and goes straight up to the office on the third floor where the CCTV recordings are. If you zoom in, you can see she’s checking the footage from the night of her father’s death.”

  I shrug. “So?”

  “So?” Pascal repeats, giving me a steady look. “We all know what she thinks. We all know she thinks we had something to do with his death.”

  He’s right. I did know that. She told me so herself, months ago, before I told her she was fucking crazy.

  Only I never really believed she was crazy.

  I just didn’t want to think about what she was saying.

  Knew that if I let myself listen, she could easily lead me down that path.

  Convince me that my father and brother are capable of murdering my uncle.

  But that’s something I refuse to entertain—for the sake of my life, for the sake of my own sanity.

  “But you didn’t have anything t
o do with his death,” I point out. “Right?”

  He narrows his eyes at me. “What do you think?”

  “Then why do you care what she thinks?”

  “Because she’s sick in the head, that’s why,” he snaps. “You know it.”

  I flinch internally at his words. I don’t know Seraphine like I once did, and maybe the way I once knew her was wrong too. But she’s not sick, no matter how Pascal and my father try and spin it that way. She’s just lost and she’s angry and she’s grieving. She should really be left alone.

  “Blaise,” Pascal says, calmly now. “She’s angry and looking for someone to blame. She’s going to blame us.”

  “Then let her. I have nothing to hide.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s very vocal and has a lot of influence. People like her. They want to listen to her, they want to help her. We can’t even have the smallest amount of doubt thrown our way, do you understand?”

  “I think you’re overreacting,” I tell him, straightening up and going back around the desk. I pick up my cognac from the side table and finish it in one go. This is ridiculous. I need to get out of here.

  “She’s snooping around because this is what she believes, Blaise. And once someone like that finds something—someone—to place the blame on, all hell will break loose.”

  “So let her find the footage from that night, then,” I say as I whip around. “If we’re all innocent, then the footage will show that.”

  He sighs, biting his lip so hard it starts to pale. “The footage is missing.”

  “Why? How do you know?”

  “Because I wanted to see what she knew, if anything. But the footage from the party is gone. Just that night. Like someone came in and made it so it never existed.”

  Did you ask our father? The question is on the tip of my tongue, yet I don’t let it spill out. Perhaps I’m too afraid of the answer.

  “Shouldn’t that make you relieved?”

  “What if she can somehow recover it? What if she grows restless with not knowing and comes prodding and poking in different ways? You know I’ve never liked her, Blaise. She’s never been one of us. She’s never understood what it’s like to grow up the way that we have, with the privileges and education we’ve had. She’s going to use that against us.”

  “So tell me again how any of this involves me? What do you want me to do exactly? Tell her to knock it off?”

  “No. I need you to follow her.”

  “Follow her?”

  The very idea of it causes hot prickles in my chest.

  “I can’t watch her all the time.”

  My eyes widen as I stare at him dumbly. “You’ve been watching her?”

  Those prickles in my chest are starting to flare, something fiery and wild. A feeling I don’t entertain very often. One I try so hard to ignore.

  He smirks at me. “I’ve had concerns for a long time. How on earth did you think I knew she went down to Bordeaux? I knew she left her apartment, I’ll just leave it at that. But I don’t trust people on the outside, and I can’t be everywhere at once. So that’s where you come in.”

  “Don’t take offense to this, but I think you have a real problem when it comes to stalking people.”

  He just grins, his smile crooked and pleased. “That’s what I do best. You have to play up your strengths, brother. So what do you say? Can you watch her? Report back to me where she goes and what she’s doing?”

  “What if I say no?”

  He seems to think that over, clasping his hands together and tapping his manicured fingernails against his chin. “Hmmm. I suppose you’re allowed to say no. But I would have to ask . . . why are you saying no? Do you want harm to come to us? Do you want our legacies, our reputations, to be damaged by her wild lies and accusations? You know the moment it becomes public that Seraphine suspects her own family of killing her father that things will end for you. Your life as you know it will end. Do you understand that?”

  I am sick and tired of Pascal asking me if I understand. I understand very well.

  And I know he does, too, why I’m reluctant to do this. He could ask me to do many things that are creepy or immoral, and I’d do them because I honestly don’t give a fuck about most things. His blood and mine are the same. I am no good.

  “Fine,” I say, and I am so very, very tired all of a sudden. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  Pascal doesn’t look convinced. “And you know I don’t mean at work. Outside of work. She’s bloodthirsty right now, and I’m depending on you to stop the bleeding before it gets worse. Can you do that?”

  Can I stalk my cousin?

  I’ve done worse things to her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SERAPHINE

  Twelve years ago

  Tuscany

  “Why are you here?”

  I glance over my shoulder as I pull the bag of flour out of the cupboard, careful not to let it spill.

  Blaise is standing in the doorway looking at me expectantly. The villa here in Tuscany where we’re staying actually belongs to his side of the family, so I automatically feel like I’m stepping on his turf somehow. His accusatory tone doesn’t help.

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” I ask, my eyes going over him. With his jeans slung low, his black T-shirt looking like he might have put it on backward, and his messy dark hair, he looks like he just rolled out of bed even though it’s three in the afternoon. He might have—I haven’t seen him all morning.

  “I thought you’d be at the river with everyone else,” he says, ever so casual.

  I go about my business with a shrug, setting down the flour beside the bowl of fresh eggs. “It’s Olivier’s birthday, so I’m baking him a cake. It’s a surprise.”

  “You know how to bake?”

  I give him a wry look before turning my back to him and getting out the measuring cups. “Of course I know how to bake. And cook. Don’t you?”

  “Why should I? We have cooks who will make anything for you.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Of course he has all that.

  “Don’t you?” he adds defiantly.

  “My parents would rather we not become spoiled,” I tell him, knowing just how spoiled Blaise and his brother, Pascal, are. On the surface, anyway.

  “Oh, how high and mighty of them,” he says with a yawn.

  “Yeah, well, you’re what, seventeen now? I think cooking is a skill you ought to pick up.”

  “Not if I get a wife.”

  I turn back to look at him and give him a grin. “I wouldn’t count on that. Anyone who gets married to you needs to have her eyes checked. Or his. I don’t judge.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he says, glowering at me. It’s hard to get a reaction out of Blaise sometimes because nothing seems to bother him, but apparently this does.

  I give him an overly sweet smile and then try to concentrate on the cake. Olivier is tough to shop for, so I figured baking a cake might be a nice alternative, and my brother eats like a horse. I practically shooed everyone out of the house to go to the river for a few hours so I could whip it up as a surprise, but I’m pretty sure Olivier will figure it out. I’m usually the first down there, swimming and sunbathing and trying to catch the eyes of the local Italian boys, especially on a sweltering day like today. August in Tuscany is no joke.

  But as everyone—meaning my mother, my aunt, my brothers, my cousin Pascal—headed off to the river to cool down, I told them I was going to stay behind.

  Of course, I expected some peace and quiet while they were gone. I didn’t expect Blaise to be lurking around.

  Which he is still currently doing. I can feel his presence behind me; he hasn’t moved.

  I do my best to ignore him, but the longer he stands there at my back, the more flustered I get. I don’t know why he has that ability. Probably because I’m always on my guard when I’m around Blaise or Pascal—or even their parents. I just don’t trust them.

  I get so flustered that when I’m trying to
crack the egg on the side of the mixing bowl, I hit it too hard and my hand slips and the contents of the bowl go flying in the air, getting me right on the face and in my bangs and down the front of my tank top.

  “Fuck!” I cry out, even though I’m not supposed to swear. But I can’t help it. My face immediately goes red from embarrassment as Blaise bursts out laughing behind me.

  Ew. Ew. Ew! I’m covered in raw egg, and I want to cry.

  I frantically look around for a towel, but I can’t see anything with the eggs running in my face.

  “Stop laughing and help me!” I cry out, reaching blindly, but then I nearly slip on the eggs on the kitchen floor. I grab the counter to hold me up, only that’s slippery, too, with egg goo, and I’m starting to go backward.

  And then Blaise is behind me, and I’m falling into his arms in the most mortifying way.

  “Easy now,” he says to me, his grip tight on my elbows. But his whole body is shaking from laughter.

  I don’t know what to say; my cheeks are burning, and I still can’t see. Next thing I know, he’s putting me upright and bringing a paper towel to my face.

  At first he’s trying to clean it off in a gentle manner, and the action is so confusing to me that I quickly yank it out of his hands and wipe it over my eyes while mumbling, “Thanks.”

  I turn away from him, away from the mess, and finish wiping off my face, my bangs goopy and sticking to my forehead. I sigh loudly, wishing I could just be swallowed up by the floor.

  “Hey, it’s not a big deal,” he says to me, gently nudging me on the arm. “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned off, and I’ll clean up down here.”

  “Those were the only eggs,” I cry out softly.

  “The farm down the street is bound to have some. We’ll go get more. Just . . . go take a shower or something, or else you’re going to stink even more than you already do.”

  I try to glare at him, but it’s impossible with the egg still lingering around my eyes. Besides, I’m kind of floored that he offered to clean up.

  So I trudge upstairs to my room, where I share a washroom with my mother, and quickly jump in the shower. I hate having to wash my hair, especially when I’m so clueless on how to manage it. I’ve read so many magazines and online articles, but they’re of no help. It’s funny that I’m officially a Dumont now, but I have none of the class and fashion sense of the family (not to mention skin tone). I stick out like a sore thumb in so many ways.