9

 

Cameras, microphones, tiny chips – Laura knew absolutely nothing about any of this. She knew nothing about it. If the letter writer had written that it was here somewhere, then it was definitely here somewhere. It was there because it had to be. And only Marcel had the keys to her apartment (Laura had long since forgotten that she had given them to Maise, and besides, what interest would Maise have in her death? Laura was far more valuable to her alive. Besides, for Maise, Laura and their so-called "friendship" were the perfect foil; she knew nothing of her double life, and through her friendship with Laura, Maise was safe. After all, someone like Laura would never be friends with a whore).

Suddenly, a shuffling sound reached the woman's ears. It grew louder, increasingly stronger. As if the beast knew she had finished reading and had decided to make itself known again. Or not so much to make itself known, as to force its way into the kitchen at all costs. No, it's impossible. I can't die. I managed to hold on that much, Laura managed to think, when suddenly a huge head appeared through the crack in the door, with red, glowing eyes. A snake. It had succeeded. It had finally caught its prey. Slowly, unhurriedly, as if knowing it had time, as if knowing that finally the woman wouldn't escape, that this time she wouldn't escape, the beast moved forward, swaying, repeatedly thrusting its tongue in and out with a terrible hiss. At the same time, its eyes, burning with the fire of hatred, never left Laura's. You've run enough. Enough of this game, it seemed to say. I've finally caught up with you. And this time I'm not going to let you escape. This time you won't slip away. You're mine. And Laura knew it was true. She couldn't escape anymore. She had nowhere to go. She sat, squeezed into a tiny corner from which she could only move in one direction—toward the beast. So she sat still, unable to look away from the beast's burning eyes, and helplessly waited for what was about to happen. She waited for death. And it finally came. After long, seemingly endless hours, exhausted to the point of exhaustion, Laura realized that now would come what she had feared. She knew she would die now. The snake slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved toward the paralyzed woman. So this is what it looks like, Laura thought. This is what the end looks like. A moment of pain, and I'll be gone. I'll be gone forever. Maybe Marcel will regret it a little, maybe even he won't... Because did he really love me? Does love exist? Funny—what a philosophical mood at such a moment. Laura lifted her head and took one last look at the kitchen. Then she turned her gaze to the snake, which, in one swift movement, lunged at her, tightening its grip around her neck. Desperately, instinctively, Laura began to thrash, trying to pull the snake away from her neck. But it was too late. The hour of revenge, desired by her mysterious pursuer, had arrived. Slowly, she lost all trace of resistance, until finally, her limp body froze in the beast's immense grip. There was no life left in beautiful Laura.

"Beautiful, wonderful," the man muttered to himself as the snake lunged at the woman. That was it. I'd waited so long for this, but now I know the wait was worth it. What a magnificent sight. Bravo, bravo, my little one. You did brilliantly. Now run. No one can find you.

As if hearing the man's distant whisper, the snake slid off the dead woman with a lightning-fast movement. Slowly, unhurriedly, the reptile slithered toward the opening and disappeared into the depths of the apartment. Where? Only he knew. Safely hidden, he waited 

to see how the situation unfolded.

Marcel was already there. He parked right next to Laura's car—well, the car in the garage wasn't proof, after all, she'd flown to Florida—and walked toward the guard. The guard knew him perfectly. "

Hello, hello, Mr. Marcel. Are you here to visit Miss Marshall?

Yes, Mike, exactly. Is she at home?

Unfortunately, I don't know; I just started my shift. But we can find out soon if you don't want to go unnecessarily.

There's no point, really. I'm sure she's waiting for me," Marcel laughed, a high, unpleasant chuckle. "

As you wish, Mr. Marcel." Even if the guard was surprised by the unusual behavior of a well-known and highly respected businessman, he didn't show it. His face remained a maskless mask. "Would you like me to take you upstairs? I'll call the boy right away..." With that, he made a slight movement of his hand, and suddenly, out of nowhere, a young man in an elevator operator's uniform appeared in front of Marcel.

No, really, it's not necessary—Marcel knew he had to see Laura alone, that no one could stop him. "I can manage perfectly well myself; I know the way.

As you wish."

Unaware of the guard's watchful gaze digging into his back, Marcel headed for the elevator. As soon as the doors closed behind him, the guard quickly turned to the phone. "I'll call the police, please. Yes, yes, I have a very strange case here...

What if I've made a fool of myself? What if she's not here? Nothing, I'll explain to her somehow that I missed her so much, that I got the dates mixed up," Marcel muttered to himself, getting off the elevator and quickly walking down the corridor. "No, it's no use, Laura knows me well enough to know it's impossible. Nothing, I'll think of something. I'll manage, as always..."

He didn't notice that the couple they passed on the way were eyeing him with great suspicion. ("He was all red and muttering to himself," the old woman would later testify. "'I'll manage, as always,' that's what he said," the old man would say in court...).

There it was. Finally, her door was there. But wait, what was that supposed to be? A white silk scarf hanging from the doorknob—a strange thing. You usually hang one like that in exclusive hotels when you don't want the servants (or anyone else) to bother you when you have a guest. Marcel felt a surge of rage. So that's it!! This bitch is cheating on him!! Definitely with that zero!! He'll show her now!!

Furious, Marcel ripped the scarf from the doorknob and kicked the door open with a single kick. He rushed inside, unconsciously noting that every possible light in the apartment seemed to be on. Dashing through every room, he reached the closed kitchen door. "So they're here," he thought. "How could it be otherwise? Laura never closes the kitchen door. It's somehow so cold in my apartment when the door is closed..." he mentally mocked his unfaithful lover.

In one fluid motion, he pushed the door open. "It's me, darling," he called, "and how are you having fun at my expense?" But Laura couldn't hear him anymore. Ironic, he was a fraction of a second too late. Just a few moments would have been enough, and who knows, maybe Laura would still be alive?

Laura? No, that's impossible." Marcel, distraught, knelt beside the limp body of his beloved. In his hands, he was unaware, he was still holding a silk scarf, wide enough to perfectly match the mark left on the woman's neck. Laura? Why are you doing this? I know, I know, I shouldn't be checking you out, come on, open your eyes, stop playing with me.

Police, please don't move.

Police? But how, from where—" Marcel stammered. "Anyway, it doesn't matter how or from where, it's good that you're here. My fiancée, she needs help...

You're under arrest." The officer pulled Marcel to his feet, simultaneously twisting his wrists behind his back and handcuffing them.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say from now on can be used against you in court. You have the right to a lawyer. If you can't afford a lawyer, one will be assigned to you ex officio." "Have you understood your rights?

But gentlemen, this is some kind of mistake, a terrible misunderstanding.

Have you understood your rights?

What rights are you talking about? She needs help.

Have you understood your rights?"

Yes, yes, I understood what you said. But what's the point, why are you arresting me?

Dead. Strangled. – the policeman who had just been leaning over the dead body of a woman – stood up and glared at Marcel. – Don't think that just because you are, you'll get away with this. ("He was involved, it was obvious we caught him at the last minute," the policeman will say in court. "So young and pretty, she could have achieved so much more," the other will testify. "He showed no remorse at all.")

But it wasn't me, gentlemen, I came in here and she was already lying there. Understand.

Sure, sure. And the shawl was just hanging on the door, wasn't it? And you took it without even knowing why? And on top of that, by some strange, incomprehensible coincidence, it fits perfectly with the marks on that poor woman's neck, right?

Yes, yes!" Marcel shouted. "It was exactly as you say. I arrived here and that shawl was hanging on the door." When I walked in, Laura was already dead. I swear!

Man, that was ironic. Let's go. You're under arrest.

But for what? For what?

We're charging

 you with first-degree murder.