Page 12 of The Devil Wears Orange
@FashionSmasher4367
Hey @CatwalkStyleMag is there an opening? Shame on you if you keep #EditorInThief as part ofyour brand. If you do, I’ll #cancel my subscription #TheDevilWearsOrange #BoycottCatwalkStyleMag
@Anthro4Ever4264
I’m an anthropology major. Back in the day they pilloried peeps in the center of town to shame them. Who needs a whipping post when you have social media? #TheDevilWearsOrange #MistressInARedDress
@FashionSmasher4367
Masthead on @CatwalkStyleMag’s web page just deleted #EditorInThief’s name. #Fired!!! I’m #liveposting from police station waiting for her release #TheDevilWearsOrange
@PradaButNot4118
Anyone see that clip on YouTube? Did she drown? And what’s she wearing? Obviously something #ToDieFor #OOTD #TheDevilWearsOrange
@HarrietCatwalkStyleMag
Drinking game. One shot every time someone posts #TheDevilWearsOrange
@AnneCatwalkStyleMag
Replying to @HarrietCatwalkStyleMag
This isn’t funny @HarrietCatwalkStyleMag. The police want to speak with us. OMG what do we tell them?
@HarrietCatwalkStyleMag
OH FOR GOD’S SAKE @AnneCatwalkStyleMag learn to DM properly
@PradaButNot4118
Miranda Priestly be all like “Who is that sad little person?”
#TheDevilWearsOrange #EditorInThief
Chapter 7
The Paris police headquartersis a large building tucked into a square of Place Louis Lépine in the 4tharrondissement. Once a barracks, the 19th-century building sits across public space; stone benches run the length of manicured shrubs outlined by a tree-lined street. Beside it, the Seine laps against the stone walkway of the canal.
When they first brought me in, dripping wet and wrapped in a blanket, I was too shaken to understand the chaos surrounding the front of the headquarters. An officer inside asked if I was okay, to which I mumbled something incoherent. Another officer took my raincoat, and then I was made to sit in a wooden chair. The man next to me had wrinkled his nose and eyed me up and down. I smelled like the Seine, but I wanted to ask him what was his excuse?
Eventually, they escorted me down a corridor and into a stark white room with a white square table and chairs. Hours have passed since then, and now I’m hungry and tired; my hair isfrizzy, my makeup smudged, and my damp clothes wrinkled. I look to the now destroyed Jimmy Choos on my feet and shift uneasily in my chair. I’m glad I trashed the wet Spanx earlier when I used thetoilet,though it was like peeling off blood-sucking leeches. Yet, it’s the two interrogating officers across from me, Lieutenants Pascale and Riel, who behave as though their day has been far more taxing. Pascale is the younger of the two, with near white-blond hair to match his fair skin, almost passing for an albino. Riel buries his head in his hands, elbows on the table, fingers raking through his grey hair. When he pulls his hands away from his face, the movement exposes his cheeks, ruby red, and eyes, puffy. They’ve been slogging away for hours with no relief and, obviously, they’re playing at something to deliberately draw out this interrogation. To what end? To wear me down? I’ve already told them everything I know.
“I don’t understand why I am still here,” I say in English.
Again, I reiterate my story to the officers and, though I’ve been at it all day speaking with them in French, perhaps this time they will listen if I speak slower. It is now evening, and I haven’t spoken to a familiar face since my kidnapping this morning. My voice grows hoarse. My stomach growls for food, and I crave a baguette with brie and strong French coffee.
I let out a heavy sigh and whine about them wasting time while the kidnappers are still at large, but the detectives look to one another in utter frustration. We have been at a standstill for hours now, with, as far as I can tell, nothing being done about the crime committed against me. Riel places his head in his hands again and wearily mutters something to Pascale. Pascale grows agitated, points to me, and bangs his hands on the table. I jump back in my chair.
“Whoa. Maybe it’s time for a break.” My suggestion is lost among the raised voices.
Now, Riel turns to bang on the table as the two men turn on one another. I’d like to slink out of the room unnoticed, perhaps find food and a phone to call Pierre and Harriet and my parents – anything to get away from the madness escalating in this room.
A knock at the door draws everyone’s attention away from the argument. After a moment, Riel opens the door then steps aside. A new figure, who resembles Anne, appears at the door, and when she takes a timid step into the room, I realize sheisAnne.
“Anne,” I say with great relief and rush to her, wrapping my arms around her. Anne reciprocates with a tight embrace.
“Oh, Charlotte, if you needed money, why didn’t you come to me?”
