Page 94 of The Substitute Fiancée

“Easy!” I protest, laughing. “Watch my bruises.”

She immediately lets go, mortified.

“I’m fine,” I reassure her. “I’ve missed you both so much.”

Mara kisses me in turn, then I briefly greet Inspector Sanders.

“Coffee?” Alexander offers.

“Gladly,” they reply.

We settle around the coffee table, steaming cups in our hands.

“Based on what we’ve found, nothing was stolen,” Mara explains. “It’s possible the burglar was looking for information about the progress of my investigations, but I can’t be sure. In any case, he left empty-handed.”

I picture the overturned table. The broken objects. My canvases thrown against the wall.

Emelyne’s hand tightens around mine while Alexander’s gaze darkens with guilt.

“In any case, we now know the burglar’s identity,” Matthieu says. “His name is Samuel Gonzalve. A wanted notice has been issued. If he’s still in Paris, we won’t be long in arresting him.”

He pauses.

“The evidence collection is complete. You can change the lock and start cleaning the apartment.”

At the end of the discussion, Mara walks him to the door. Their low-voiced conversation, punctuated with laughter, reaches us in muffled fragments.

“To think she’s been dating a police inspector for four months without telling us anything!” Emelyne fumes as soon as the door closes.

I can’t help but laugh.

When Mara comes back, she sits down and takes a deep breath.

“I’ll go to the apartment tomorrow to clean up, see what can be saved and what needs to be thrown away.”

“We’re coming with you,” I say immediately.

“No. You stay here with Emelyne. You work on your graduation projects.”

“You can’t do everything on your own.”

“I won’t be alone,” she replies with a mysterious smile. “I found a few strong arms to help.”

I smile, wondering who she could possibly have recruited. Knowing her, she’s probably mobilized a small army.

30. Blank Canvas

Samantha

When I wake up the next morning, Alexander has already left for the office. Emelyne rings the intercom at nine, and after a quick breakfast together, we set up in the guest room to work.

Emelyne draws on her tablet, comfortably propped up in bed, while I stand in front of my easel.

The stakes aren’t the same for her as they are for me. Her textile design work is digital and won’t be printed until closer to graduation. She’s mostly here for moral support—and her presence comforts me more than I care to admit.

Sitting in front of my blank canvas, I don’t know where to begin. Should I redo the destroyed paintings or continue the series as if nothing had happened? Pick up where I left off or start over entirely?

Minutes pass. The canvas remains stubbornly white. A blinding white that mirrors my helplessness.