The Central Police Precinct was usually a place of grim, bureaucratic silence. Tonight, it looked like the red carpet at Cannes, if the red carpet were paved with asphalt and desperation.
Lydia Laurent had been busy.
Dozens of reporters were camped outside the steps, their breath fogging in the chilly night air. When the black Rolls Royce pulled up, the crowd surged forward like a single, hungry organism.
Inside the car, Aria adjusted the collar of her black leather jacket. She had pulled her rose-gold hair back into a severe, high ponytail that exposed the sharp lines of her face. She wore no jewelry except for the ruby engagement ring and the simple sapphire choker she had "repossessed" from the estate.
"She called them," Damien observed from the seat beside her. He looked bored, scrolling through his phone. "She wants a public spectacle. She thinks shame will make you fold."
