There’s a certain truth in all that Amirah says. He admires her for that, the way that she weaves words like spun gold and turns patchwork half-lies into beautiful tapestries. It’s an art form and Amirah has perfected the delicate nuances of such an intricate craft. Yes, he admires her, but in the same breath he fears her.
She turns to him, a look of knowing caught in the center of her gaze.
“For what my word is worth, I am an attorney, and I’m not in the habit of incriminating myself, nor others when none of us are legally being charged with a crime.” It’s the truth, he didn’t say much to the detective, but he wonders if anyone else would have. He looks at Genevieve and wonders if their shared bond among the immortal made a difference in her reply.
“I do, however, have something I wish to speak with you about in private. A quid pro quo so to speak. This is not to say however that I do not trust, or wish for the rest of you to be involved, but as this is a rather personal matter,” his attention is drawn to the doorway, a look of faux longing settles neatly onto his countenance, “I believe the other party would be more comfortable with someone they know.”
Geneviève studies August carefully as he speaks, keeping her posture aligned and trying not to move, to fidget, or to behave in any way that might seem suspicious or nervous to any current people in her company.
It doesn’t surprise her in the least that he’s kept his lips firmly sealed to Domingo. Sanctimonious he may be at times, sure, but she would never say August isn’t admirably canny.
Once he’d finished, she coughs slightly, and attempts to follow suit, “Sorry to disappoint, Amirah dear, but I didn’t give our new friend anything to chew on either. You should know by now,” she says, with a sickly sweet, smug smile, “whatever you think of me, I’m not so monstrous as to sell out every single one of my friends like that. However much I might be entertained by the drama of doing such a thing, there’s no chance.”
“Dreadfully boring, isn’t it?” she says with a giggle. “Protecting each other.”
Though, of course, she’d never considered doing anything else.
“What about you, though?” she says, creeping slowly towards Amirah until their faces are centimetres apart. “Did you tell him anything?”
“Come on, it’s only fair if you asked us. Fess up, and then we can have some fun with this autopsy business.”
Was there anything in it? That was the question. It wasn’t strange for Amirah to enter into a dramatic bluff, after all.
Nikhil had no intention of doing something as foolish as giving anything at all useful to the police, but he was just as certain that saying that would do little to convince Amirah. All too often, since he has arrived here, has he found himself backed into corners, making concessions. It wears on him, and yet the autopsy is simply too valuable a resource to let slip through his fingers. Knowledge is power, Amirah knows it. He knows it.
“You have a deal,” Nikhil says, matter of fact, and slips his phone from his back pocket. Sure to angle himself to conceal the screen from the group, he types a simple, two sentence text message. A secret he’s kept for years, a night never once spoken of aloud. Not entirely damning, but enough that it should satisfy her, if only for it’s value in gossip. Amirah will have questions. Depending on the value of the autopsy report, he might even deign to give her answers.
nikhil: I slept with Julian de Cervantes.
He waits for the telltale sound of a text notification, and then slips his phone back into his pocket. “That should suffice,” he says, looking to Amirah with the slightest raise of an eyebrow.
“Now, the autopsy report?”
There is something undoubtedly intoxicating about the way all three of her comrades lay themselves verbally prostrate at the altar that is Amirah Botros. She watches with veiled interested as August, predictably, affirms his tight-lippedness; she, of course, expects no less from the prodigal son. A well-manicured brow arches, however, at the second part—a promise of drama and delectable heartbreak, she’s sure, if only in exchange for a bit of her own relational woes. This is a deal the Devil does not mind making. “Well, of course, Mr. Levésque,” she agrees, not sparing the others a passing glance—that is, until Geneviève slinks closer to her face, pressing and accusatory.
Doesn’t she know that a cornered viper will strike?
The woman does not balk. In fact, she smiles—dagger-sharp and all-too-knowing. She leans in closer, her curls brushing against the other’s cheek as she whispers in her ear, her own tone adopting the same sickly sweet tone, “What, darling, are you worried I let your little cat out of the bag? The end of our escape room was quite a treat, if I do say so myself.” Amirah lingers for a half-second more before pulling away, leaning back against the bench with a near-playful air about her—a cat toying with mice. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Gen—your secret’s safe with me.” Conspiratorially, she winks. “All of your secrets are safe with me. Haven’t they always been?” She regards the group in earnest, brown hues scanning each and every face, daring them to tell her she’s wrong.
They were all...relatively unscathed, no? At least they were alive.
And then comes Nikhil’s agreement, the voice of promise and clarity. She waits with bated breath for him to whisper in her ear like Hector once did in their game of Aut Veritas Aut Mort, how they all did in college so many moons ago, but he whips out his phone, sends a text. She doesn’t bother to hide the satisfaction that blossoms across her visage as she retrieves her own to read the damning text. She begins to think of all the ways she could warp this one text to a grandiose story, one to perhaps rival that of Nazrin and her beloved best friend, if need be. Nikhil has given her tinder, ripe for burning—she need only light the flame, if pressed. But, until then, she will sit with his confession and hold it close so as to lord over him. “Very well,” she purrs, ‘loving’ the message before tucking her phone back into her purse.
“Look here,” Amirah says, motioning to the flowers that grow near the base of the bench, the path, around where they all linger. “I know we’ve a resident botanist in our midst—” a quick look to Geneviève “—but I took the liberty of doing some research of my own. Our escape room namesakes: amaryllis, lily of the valley, hemlock, and nightshade.” She rattles the list of fauna off, pointing to each flower as they’re named. In the next motion, she unlocks the iPad, reads from the screen: “‘J. De Cervantes suffered head trauma to the left side of his temple and abrasions on his face and hands, indicative of a physical altercation. Forensic toxicology reports indicate that he was also suffering from a drug overdose with extremely high levels of alcohol, methamphetamines, cocaine, and opiates.’” As was to be expected, of course. The Botros woman continues, “‘Toxicology reports also reveal high levels of alkaloids in the liver and kidneys.’
“...I don’t think it’s a coincidence that these poisonous, alkaloid-producing flowers are grown here in the De Cervantes greenhouse, nor do I believe Viviana bestowed those names upon our escape room groups by happenstance.” She scowls at the notion, releasing the unlocked iPad from her grasp so that the others may finally look.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if this is the new information upon which they’re building their case--that Viviana and the detective believe one of us poisoned her beloved son.”