I woke up with a stuffy head, a blocked nose and a hangover.
My head throbbed, my limbs ached, and my heart fluttered in a strange, jumpy rhythm, the result of a sleepless night.
I saw Ashton’s text and didn’t reply.
I didn’t want to talk to him. Not until I’d sorted out what was going on in my own head.
I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a peaceful conversation. The last time he spoke to me without trying to squeeze something out of Ashton. The last time he gave me a smile that felt remotely fatherly.
Still, he was my father. He gave me life.
I could at least spend one day mourning him. Right?
I called Fabrizio to ask for the day off.
His hangover was probably worse than mine. I remembered how much he’d drunk last night.
I rang Peter Carl instead and told him I wasn’t coming in.
‘You and Fab both,’ he said, sounding unsurprised. ‘What did you two get up to last night?’
I gave a vague answer.
‘It’s fine. Take all the time you need. What do you want me to do with the letter, though?’
‘What letter?’ I asked.
‘The one on your desk. The envelope says “for Mirabelle”. No sender name, but I recognise Fabrizio’s handwriting. He must’ve left it there after you clocked out. Some kind of note about a design tweak, maybe. Want me to open it?’
A cold feeling settled in my chest. ‘No. I’ll be there soon. Don’t open it.’
‘Okay.’ Peter Carl sounded like he had more questions, but I wasn’t in the mood.
I called Inspector Silva.
‘I was just about to ring you,’ he said.
The cold feeling turned to stone. ‘Tell me.’
‘Fabrizio Marchetti has fled the country.’
‘When?’ My mouth went dry.
‘Sometime last night. More precisely, early this morning, around 3 a.m.’
‘How? I thought you had men watching him.’
‘We did. He slipped out of the city on a bus, ditched his phone, probably crossed into Luxembourg and caught a flight to Sydney. By now, he’s likely landed in Rarotonga.’ Silva’s voice was thick with regret.
‘You can’t touch him there.’
‘We can’t.’ Silva sighed. ‘We were so close. Someone must’ve tipped him off.’
‘Last night, at the dinner—’
‘Not you. I’m not pointing fingers. Fabrizio had help. Someone with the means to organise a new passport and get him out. We’re working on it. In the meantime...’
‘I need to get to the office.’
‘I doubt he left anything useful behind.’
‘He left me a letter.’
That got Silva’s attention. ‘I’ll meet you there in half an hour.’
I rushed out and flagged down a taxi. My thoughts were blank. Fabrizio was gone. Just like that.
I knew Silva had no reason to lie to me, but part of me still couldn’t believe it. Even as he coached me on what to ask, even as I played along, it never felt entirely real.
‘We’re here,’ the driver said.
I paid and jumped out, rushed past the smiling receptionist, and took the lift up to my floor.
The white envelope was on my desk, just like Peter Carl had said.
Silva wasn’t here yet. He’d probably tell me not to touch it, to let forensics handle it.
I tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
It was handwritten. All it said was: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Peter Carl strolled over, holding a coffee. ‘You look like someone just died.’
I looked up, stunned.
Everyone at the company, apart from me, had been kept in the dark about the investigation. But now it was all going to come out. What would happen to Peter Carl? To the others? What would they do when they found out that Fabrizio had bankrupted the company and bailed instead of staying to fix what he’d broken?
‘I’ve been thinking about your idea for that pierced openwork collar necklace,’ Peter Carl said, breezy as ever. ‘It could work, but we’ll probably run into sourcing issues. The suppliers are all playing hardball. No one wants to release their stones unless they see a cheque first.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone’s in it for the money, eh? I, on the other hand,’ he said, thumping his chest, ‘live for the art.’
I licked my lips, dry and cracked. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was about to lose his job.
In fact, everyone at Valmont & Cie would be out of work once the investors realised the company was an empty shell. They’d liquidate everything just to recover what they could.
‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.’ Peter Carl leaned across the desk and patted my hand. ‘You look like you’re about to explode. I ought to tell the boss off for piling so much stress on you. If I can find him. Where is Fab, anyway?’
There was a knock at the open door.
Inspector Silva stepped in.
I handed him the envelope silently.
‘Who’s this?’ Peter Carl asked.
I looked at him. I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but no one else could.
‘Peter, can you gather everyone? I need to make an announcement.’
‘What’s going on?’ His expression darkened. He could probably feel what was coming. ‘Alright. Give me a minute.’ This text is hosted at novel·fıre·net
Ten minutes later, I stood in front of a familiar group of faces, braced myself and told them everything.
Gasps, frowns, shaking heads and stunned silence followed. None of them wanted to believe it, but Silva’s presence backed me up.
He gave them the rest. ‘The company is insolvent and will be liquidated. The public prosecutor will petition the court for a compulsory winding-up order.’
That was when the crying began.
Peter Carl found me later in the afternoon, eyes red.
‘Mirabelle, you’re the only one who can save us now.’