Chapter Text
Everyone crowded into the small ferry boat taking them back to the mainland. Each man visibly standing taller, eyes brighter and smile wider as they left The Palazzo and its ghosts behind. Rashid and Damek brainstorming a joint business venture; Louis gazing with calm fondness at Lestat’s suddenly carefree face; above all, Daniel and Armand nearly radiant with joy, reveling in every sight which met their children’s wonder-filled eyes. Looking out at a horizon grown fresh and wide with newfound possibility. Laughing.
“Oh, relax, you pair of whiny existential queens!” Daniel Molloy rolls his eyes at the married couple next to him. “It’s done, it’s all over, no one’s gonna care about your sordid past anymore, the folks at the adoption agency will love you - you’ll be getting your little bundle of joy soon enough.”
“And if not,” Armand chimes in, teeth flashing white in mirth, “What the heck: I’ll be your surrogate… for a sufficiently obscene fee, of course.”
Lestat frowns, in obvious performance. “With which one of us, gremlin?” he inquires.
Armand shrugs. “One each, naturally: make it a girl for Louis and a boy for you. And, hey,” he gestures with boundless generosity, “treat me right, and I’ll even let you put them in me the old-fashioned way.” He winks. “If my Beloved offers no objection.”
Daniel just grins while giving a thumbs-up. “Go for it, Boss: after all, it’s my turn to sit in the chair and watch.”
The detectives shake their heads and sigh. Oh, they definitely won’t miss this crew of weirdos.
********
Seven Years Later…
Detective Williams does end up seeing them again from time to time. Not entirely intentionally, yet not entirely by accident, either - only natural for her to keep up with some local news and gossip when familiar names come up. Thus, she knows that the young Mr. de Romanus after (quietly but respectfully) burying his adoptive father, sold the entirety of The Palazzo and used most of the profits to start a charity to help orphans in the land of his birth. The only portion he withheld went not to him, but to provide Mr. Mahmoud and Mr. Svoboda with a generous severance package. The two men promptly pooled their resources to purchase the building Brianna’s looking at right now. The Azalea Bed and Breakfast is a painted lady riot of colours, her gardens laden with its namesake blossoms and her patio restaurant abuzz with holidaymakers - including some familiar faces.
Every summer, they celebrate Independence Day here: two unusual, growing families, or perhaps one very large, truly bizarre one. Not that Bricks has time to follow celebrity goings-on, but, since she does not actually live under a rock, she did get wind of the fairytale wedding between a certain up-and-coming model and eager boy journalist; and, peering through the decorative wrought-iron fence, easily spots the crew - now all legally Molloys - complete with the newest additions: Sybelle and Benji’s little siblings Lenore and Katie. The couple across from them is even more beloved by the camera and the media. Lestat and Louis’ dreams of adopting have, in fact, come true. Mr. Du Lac is currently deep in conversation with his daughter Claudia. The precocious youngster already has a recurring role on a TV show and a reputation for nearly preternatural, method-acting maturity. Next to them, Mr. Lioncourt seems to have grown even more breathtaking from sheer happiness, radiating love at everyone around the table, right down to the infant in his arms. As far as the entertainment press is concerned, little Viktor Gabriel de Lioncourt’s arrival caused nearly as much furor as that of a royal baby. Even the hardened investigator can’t help smiling at such a picture of domestic bliss… but it is the final person in the group, one she’s never seen here before, who draws her attention. The one Bricktop has come to observe.
********
She’s certainly made a triumphant comeback from her lengthy disappearance. Her new bestseller merges yet another rugged, human-versus-Nature globetrotting adventure with a memoir of addiction overcome, a hard-won sobriety. Clearly a winning combo, if the long queue of eager readers lining the pavement outside the posh bookstore is any indication. Detective Williams takes her place among them, whiling away the wait time by looking at the promo materials on the sandwich board, windows and walls. All evolving versions of the same Superwoman, ruggedly handsome even as the elements weather her pale skin and the snow of passing years begins to rest on her distinctive golden hair.
Here she is, strong arms at the oars, rowing a frail little boat across the Channel. In full SCUBA gear amongst the splendour of a coral reef. Free-diving. In heartbreaking surroundings at the Polish border, a selfless volunteer assisting medical personnel treating Ukrainian refugees. Finally, in the flesh, busy dispensing autographs at a table piled high with hardcovers, each one gleaming with silver letters proclaiming its author as the one and only Gabrielle de Lioncourt.
At first, the writer’s eyes - a startling blue-grey-violet, nearly as beautiful as her son’s, but colder - slide over the investigator with the same polite superficiality they give to everyone in line to get their book signed, but then… “Mademoiselle de Lioncourt,” masked by a flawless smile and equally flawless French, “Detective Briana Williams.” A badge discreetly proffered. “We need to talk.” She taps meaningfully at the note she’d taped to the hardcover’s flyleaf. The author’s features barely register a ripple before her pen inscribes, not her signature, but a time for the rendezvous.
*******
The two women regard each other across a tiny table in the hole-in-the-wall pizza joint: the sort patronized exclusively by locals, and not the literary-minded kind at that. “All right, Detective.” Gabrielle sounds almost amused. “You wish to talk? So, talk. Explain this.” A weathered hand produces the note from earlier. Only 2 words: “I know.”
The amusement only grows as Ms. De Lioncourt leans forward. “Tell me,” her blond eyebrow quirks up, “just what, exactly, do you think you know?”
Bricks mirrors her enthusiasm, pleased to get straight to the point. “Very well. During the now-closed case of one Marius de Romanus, a few facts stuck out to me. Quite the adventurous life you’ve led, Madame - remarkable, really: all those amazing skills amassed. To pick a few at random… You are quite the rower; proficient at SCUBA diving (old news to you of course, but I was floored to learn all that gear will function in as little as, say, 1.5 meters of water); you’ve even had some medical training… enough, I daresay, to handle a syringe, even beneath the waves?”
Gabrielle smiles. “Detective, I can’t tell whether you’re interviewing me, or merely flattering. Because the latter, as they say, gets you nowhere.”
A smile returned. “Perhaps not. All right… How about a few facts of a different sort?” She begins to list them on her manicured fingers. “Cocchi Vermouth di Torino. Well-known as The Roman’s special occasion drink; since nobody else ever touched the stuff, who could possibly vouch whether the bottle found on the beach actually came from his wine cellar? Booze and sleeping pills, injected; risky, but you had to subdue him enough for the body to show no obvious signs of a struggle, right? Let me guess: you’d hoped to plant the pill bottle in his bedroom, only we arrived too fast, so you had to settle for the beach? On the other hand, a stroke of luck for you and your getaway plans: no one in town had seen you for years, you weren’t on anybody’s radar - not even ours, not with the gaggle of suspects we already had - just another small boat messing about in the bay which, over the holiday weekend around these parts, stands out about as much as a leaf in a forest…”
The writer shakes her head from side to side, not even bothering to hide her mirth. “Mon Dieu, Detective Williams, I wish I wrote fiction: you’re giving me such spectacular ideas for a potboiler… of the fantasy kind.”
“True,” the investigator keeps her tone conciliatory, “but, in any murder plan, there is always some unexpected hiccup, a hair in the mechanism, so to speak… In this case, quite literally: a single hair fragment, only a 50% match for Lestat, of no use to us at the time. But, if I were to compare it to, say, another sample?” Almost lovingly, she brushes a still-attractive strand away from Gabrielle’s face.
Only the slightest flinch. “And yet,” the author’s hand gestures around the dingy joint. “I see neither a police station around us, nor a court order compelling such a sample on the table. So, what do you really want from me? A confession? Some dramatic declaration of my innocence?”
“You’re no innocent.” Briana’s eyes blaze, fiercely, just for an instant. “Not now; not years ago, when you used your own son as…”
“Addiction is a terrible disease,” Gabrielle interrupts. “You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“But not a get-out-of-jail-free card,” Detective Williams counters, intentional in her choice of words. “When I met Lestat, I met a very brave, loving, self-sacrificing young man… who needed therapy and medication to cope with what had been done to him. Do you at least understand what part you played in that?”
For the first time, the author’s icy veneer cracks. Bricks glimpses a face twisted in pain just for a moment, before Gabrielle’s head drops into her hands. “I do. It haunts me every day: what sort of mother I was, that I failed him…”
“You did,” Bricks confirms, unflinchingly; then, her voice softens. “However… After years spent doing this job, I’ve developed a kind of gift: I always know when a suspect is lying to me. And when they’re not. That’s why, when I interviewed him, I knew this much was true. You do love your son, don’t you?” Waits for the confirming nod. “So, when he told you what was happening - with The Roman, with the photos, with Armand - you committed a new crime to atone for the old one.”
“And if - purely hypothetically, of course - a mother did so to make amends for when she failed to protect her child… Wouldn’t people, hypothetically, understand?” She sounds cold and controlled, but the investigator can sense the turmoil underneath.
“They might. Certainly not a case I’d relish bringing to a jury, not if I could help it,” Bricktop admits. Then, almost casually, “Does Lestat know?”
Gabrielle shakes her head. “He suspects nothing. My son is a golden child of light who, despite everything he has endured, refuses to live without believing in the possibility of goodness. My son-in-law - well, he’s a bit more comfortable with the darker side of things; perhaps that’s why he’s finally warmed up to me a little lately. I am - cautiously, with boundaries - allowed back into their lives, into my grandchildren’s lives…” She falters, just a little; draws a steadying breath. “I get to see that my son’s in good hands, that he’s finally… happy, and…” For the first time, Gabrielle de Lioncourt regards Detective Williams with an unspoken, earnest plea.
Silence reigns heavy for a lengthy moment. Then, Bricks gives a near-imperceptible nod. “I’m glad everyone is doing well.” She says almost lightly. “I cannot guarantee that nobody will ever choose to dig through that particular cold case, but, officially, I closed it seven years ago. I do suggest that, in the future, y’all hold your touching family reunions somewhere outside my jurisdiction: I see no need for us to speak again. As far as I’m concerned, the matter is concluded.”
“Thank you.” Gabrielle says very quietly. A fleeting tremor passes through strong limbs which once wrapped ruthlessly around a drugged body, holding it beneath the water. Before she walks away, the detective catches those beautiful blue eyes warming, making them look even more strikingly like Lestat’s; and, for a second, thinks it’s somehow fitting that they were the last thing Marius de Romanus ever saw.