Page 42 of Gilded Wicked Mirrors
A dangerous tension jolted between them, running on an electric current so hot sparks chipped off, threatening to consume them in flames. Giselle flashed a vicious smile and winked. And the two engaged in the most inappropriate of staring contests.
Hadleigh cleared her throat. “Francois.”
That name felt familiar.
“Right, you are, Haddie. Where were we?” he asked, stepping back and composing himself a bit.
Giselle let out a snort and defiantly crossed her arms. “I believe you were threatening to torture us. So why don’t you get along with that?”
Quinn’s head swung to her friend. What in all the mirrors was Giselle thinking? Admittedly, she was brave and had a sheer lack of fear in the face of uncertain circumstances, but now she was goading this man—Francois—on.
But something was off about the Fantômes and the situation, and it gnawed at the back of her mind. It was almost as if they were play-acting. As if this is how they were expected to appear.
After a prolonged moment of silence, Francois laughed, and his face lit up with pure enjoyment. “Touché, perhaps we’ll wait on the torturing for now.”
Quinn loosed a breath, but Giselle only rolled back her shoulders and said, “I thought the new leader of Les Fantômes would be scarier.” Giselle glowered at him, the energy between them palpable.
“While a fox might not be scary, I find that they can outmaneuver almost everyone.” He ran a finger down his silk lapels, straightening them.
Giselle tensed and tilted her head once more, studying him intensely. “Almost everyone.”
“You’re the Fox?” Quinn blurted out.
“You know of me?” he asked with a raise of his brow.
“We were loo—” Giselle stomped on Quinn’s foot before she could say anything else.
Clearly, Giselle didn’t want him to know who she was. But why, if they were once friends? And if they were friends, how did he not recognize her? It’d been fifteen years, and it was possible that Giselle looked utterly different after growing up, but why wouldn’t she want him to know?
Francois slightly shifted on his feet, waiting for an actual answer. His shadow danced against the wall, reminding Quinn of a Viridian illusion.
Illusions . . . Quinn let out a gasp, stepped back, and nearly fell into the thermal pool. “Francois,” she whispered. “It was you. You were with Jane the night she died. You must know more about her death.”
“Oh, that’s why you’ve come. You’re the little redheaded medical examiner I’ve heard so much about.” Francois rubbed his chin, his entire demeanor changing—softening. “I wondered if it was on council business, but this makes more sense.”
Council business? And he knew about her? From who, Jane?
“And before you ask, we had nothing to do with Jane’s murder,” he said, his tone and demeanor utterly shifted. His “gang” mask fell away, leaving a less intimidating version of him underneath. “Jane was family, and we don’t kill family even when they step out of line. I assume you’re investigating the murder because you cared about Jane, and while that doesn’t make us friends, it does place us on the same side.”
Hadleigh shuffled her feet and averted her eyes slightly, clenching her fists. If Quinn hadn’t been staring right at the girl, she would have missed it. But it was clear Hadleigh didn’t want anyone to see what rested in her golden irises.
Did she care about Jane—maybe loved her?
Quinn released some of the tension in her shoulders and loosed a breath. She chose to believe, for now, that the gang didn’t want Jane dead—at least until she had solid evidence pointing toward them.
But now that Francois was talking, she’d take advantage of it. “Stepping out of line?”
“Jane was acting cagey lately,” Francois said.
“How so?” Giselle asked.
Hadleigh opened her mouth to respond, but Francois held up a hand. “We are not in the business of charity. If you wantinformation, you’ll have to trade. Tell me about the autopsy, and I’ll answer your questions.”
Quinn swallowed. Francois knew too much about her, and she knew barely anything about him. It was unsettling, but then maybe Jane told him. But she needed a lead or a clue to a killer. The best option was to trade. So Quinn listed the facts of the case but intentionally left out precisely what was found on the body, in case the gang only wanted the information to cover up the murder.
None of them spoke. Silence and heartbreak were their only companions, their demeanors hollow and shaken. Either they were excellent fakes, or they cared.
Francois was the first to regain his composure. “Thank you for telling us,” he said, a tiny quiver in his voice as he slipped his gun back into his jacket. “Ask your questions.”
