The officer seemed to consider this. “Your husband had met him, then?”
I shook my head. “No.” But then I thought of Sabine, of the other life that he had lived apart from me. “I don’t know,” I found myself admitting. “I mean, I don’t think so. Not that he ever mentioned.” I reached for the glass of water again.
The officer watched me, his face still, revealing nothing. “I’m confused, madame. If you had never met Youssef, and your husband had never met him, then why were you both scared of him?”
“We were never scared,” I replied, quickly.
“No?” He frowned.
“No,” I repeated, frustrated now. “I don’t know. John had told me stories, about Youssef, about how he had conned some tourists out of money.”
“And you were afraid he would do this to you as well—con you out of money?”
Again, I shook my head. “No, not really. It’s just—”
“Just what, Madame Shipley?” he snapped.
I felt a flush, could tell that it had broken out across my chest, its redness most likely unmistakable even in the grim, darkened setting of the room. I cleared my throat, but before I could speak, Aunt Maude stirred. Leaning forward, she placed a hand on the officer’s desk. “What is this about, please?”
Ayoub tilted his head, clearly unsettled by the interruption but doing his best to hide it. “Nothing at all, madame,” he finally said, with what seemed a reluctant smile. “We are only trying to establish a link between this young woman, her husband, and the perpetrator.” He turned back to me. “So you never met Youssef?”
I shook my head. “I’ve told you this already. I have never met him.”
“That is interesting.” He sat back in his chair, a smile emerging on his previously blank face. “You see, we’ve spoken to the suspect and he claims to be very well acquainted with you, Madame Shipley.”
I stilled at his words. “What do you mean?”
“He says that you know each other, that you met a few weeks back, in a café, outside Cinema Rif.”
“But I’ve never been to Cinema Rif,” I protested, but even as I said the words, I realized—it was Lucy. She was the one he was describing. She was the one who had somehow planted this idea, this trap, so that I had ended up here, in this particular office. “Lucy,” I breathed.
A frown stole over Ayoub’s face. “Pardon, madame?”
“It’s Lucy,” I said again, only louder this time.
“I don’t understand,” Ayoub said, glancing toward Aunt Maude.
I hesitated, feeling my aunt’s icy stare, her disapproval, but I brushed them aside, pushing ahead. I could remain quiet no longer, not when everything had become twisted and jumbled. They would need my help to sort through it, so that it made sense at last. Maude didn’t see yet, she couldn’t—but she would, eventually.
“Lucy Mason,” I said, though my voice trembled. “She’s my old college roommate.”
The frown remained. “And how does this relate to what has happened here?”
“Lucy only just recently arrived in Tangier,” I began, “and I believe that she might be involved.”
Ayoub shook his head. “Perhaps I am not understanding. Involved with what, exactly?”
“With all of it,” I said, leaning toward the officer. “With John’s death, with this silly idea that I somehow know Youssef, that I might somehow have something to do with it myself.”
Ayoub was quiet for a moment, but then he smiled and said, “It’s interesting that you mention this—the idea that you might be involved. Yes, you see, Youssef has also claimed that someone else is responsible. A Tangerine, a woman.” He paused. “His good friend, Madame Alice Shipley.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“I mean, that the man claims he is innocent.” Ayoub shrugged. “He says that you, Madame Shipley, came to him, asking questions about a woman, someone your husband had been seeing on the side. And then, not shortly after that, he claims he saw this same woman attack and murder her husband. Your husband, Madame Shipley.”
A scoff from beside me as my aunt demanded: “And you believe him?”
Ayoub waved away the question. “We know about Youssef, we’ve been watching him now for years. Of course he’s only dabbled in petty theft before, little schemes of no real consequence.” He paused. “This was quite surprising, and yet—”
“What?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“I can imagine it,” he said, pointedly. “If there was perhaps, shall we say, a persuasive force,” he paused. “Did you, Madame Shipley,” he said, emphasizing the latter word, “know about your husband’s affair?”
I froze, but before I could respond, Aunt Maude placed a hand on my shoulder. She leaned forward and whispered in a low, forceful tone, “Monsieur, are you charging my niece with something today?”
He seemed to consider her words carefully. “Not at this moment, madame. This is only an informal chat, a chance for Madame Shipley to tell us anything she might know.”
“But I’ve just told you,” I said. “I had nothing to do with this man. And he didn’t have anything to do with John. It’s Lucy, not him.”
“No?” He removed several items from his pocket then and placed them onto the table between us. I saw the leather wallet that John had purchased in the souks, a wallet that smelled of the city and conjured up memories and images that I would rather leave behind. It had been purchased the same day I had lost John in the market, had grown angry and confused and scared—but then no, I realized. That hadn’t been the same day at all, those two had been separate and distinct. I shook my head, focusing my eyes, my mind, instead on the other object Ayoub had produced.
A small silver item that I couldn’t place at first. But then I heard its familiar clatter, saw its shape and detail, and I knew what it was, knew that it could only be one thing and nothing else.
My mother’s bracelet.
The officer was watching me expectantly—a look of triumph already spreading across his features. “You recognize these, yes?”
The room was hot, suffocating. “Yes,” I replied, “the bracelet belonged to my mother.” But even as I said the words, I struggled to understand how it had come into his possession, to understand what sequence of events had placed that bracelet—one my mother had once held in the palm of her hands, had once worn around the curve of her wrist—into the rough, calloused hands of a stranger, miles and miles away from where I had last seen it.
“But it was most recently in your possession, yes?” the officer pressed. “That is, before you gave it away.”
“Yes,” I continued, but then I shook my head. “No. I mean, it belongs to me now, but no, I did not give it away,” I said, my voice low and hoarse.
He looked at me. “If that is true, madame, then how do you think I have happened to come into possession of it?”
I struggled to speak. “I don’t know,” I said, turning toward my aunt at last, my words spoken more to her than the officer. “I haven’t a clue. I lost it when I was at Bennington. I thought at first Lucy had stolen it, but then she denied it. I haven’t seen it since.”
The officer leaned back in his chair. “Shall I tell you where I found it?” His eyes narrowed. “Though, I suspect you already know.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Auntie.” I reached out to take her hand. “I promise I have no idea.”
Aunt Maude said nothing.
“Your good friend Youssef was found in possession of this bracelet.” He paused. “Payment,” he said, the word long and drawn out.
I started, turning back to him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Payment,” he repeated. “That’s why he claims you gave him the bracelet.” He gave a short laugh. “He seemed to have no idea that it was worthless, a piece of metal and paste.”
Maude shifted. “Payment for what, exactly?”