Chapter Text
Benoit Blanc was not a man accustomed to nightmares. He had been blessed with a mind that would examine the steps leading to an inevitable conclusion in his waking hours, and then leave such thoughts be when it was time for sleep. Moreso, he did not often dwell on the what-ifs or might-have-beens. That was far too fanciful stuff, and he honestly believed that in his many years of investigating, his successes far outweighed his failures.
So when his sleep became consumed by visions of Marta Cabrera lying in a pool of darkening blood at the foot of a throne of knives, he found himself wishing he was the sort who could wake up from a bad dream. No, instead his brain insisted on dwelling on each concocted detail, from the peculiar mix of smells he remembered from that day (books, fall air, the sourness of stomach contents), to the sound of Sondheim in slow motion, to the flush in Marta’s face draining away as her hand limply fell away from the hilt sticking out of her still chest.
Regardless of the cases he had taken since he took his leave of Marta and the Thrombeys, his brain returned to the day in the manor. Chastising him that but for the good fortune of a trick knife, the murder of Marta Cabrera would have been the greatest personal failure in his illustrious career. That he, flush in the satisfaction of nailing Hugh Ransom Drysdale dead to rights thanks to the resolve of the marvelous Marta, had been too slow—
No.
He had been too complacent to anticipate the violent desperation of a brutish, entitled brat.
In hindsight he wondered, perhaps with a discomforting twinge, that maybe his investigation had been clouded. He tried to push the introspection aside—his method had worked, hadn’t it? Brought him to the singular revelatory moment neither too early, nor too late, but precisely when he meant to, as was his want.
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps however he had not done enough; perhaps worse, he had done too much.
Honest always had to start from within, so his father said, and looking back, yes. He had wanted Marta to be innocent. When he triggered her particular reflex upon their first meeting it felt like a victory, like a steamer to layers of old wallpaper, allowing him to peel away more of the hideous stuff the family had tried to throw up to hide the rot underneath.
But had he thought her innocent then? He’d told her she had nothing to gain from Harlan’s death, and he’d believed that. Moreover, though he was not a gambling man, he trusted in her truly unfortunate tell. The one person unable to lie to him.
Well, that had been a fool thing to rely on, hadn’t it? Like a fairy tale character trapped in a witch’s curse, Marta had found a work around in her own way, moving in his blind spot. And he’d invited her right into that spot, thinking he was getting the upper hand on the Thrombeys’ web of lies.
No. The great Benoit Blanc had gotten lucky in the Thrombey case. Lucky in Marta’s uncommon decency, her kindness regardless of a dark desperation. Lucky in that everything fell into place just at his feet like he had always relied on.
It was a new case in early February that made him pause in particular. A nasty little affair also involving money and an entitled family; but in this New York Upper East Side cabal the worthless son had conspired with the granddame’s very ambitious nurse. They had even planned on running away together once the deed was done and the will had been settled, and Benoit found his face twisting with disgust, with the certainty that Marta would have NEVER—
But then he remembered watching Hugh Ransom Drysdale peeling off in his BMW with Marta by his side, and feeling—
Well he honestly couldn’t tell what he had been feeling.
Now why was that? He’d seen the thunderbolt of shock on her face, after all, had stepped in when the family’s gentile racism twisted to pure vitriol as they turned on her. He’d been certain she’d be able to get to her car, that he’d be able to get the kicked yellowjackets settled back inside with the help of Elliott and Wagner, check in and offer her a word of comfort while collecting more of her insight later on that day.
In reality, Benoit had practically handed the murderer a head start at a second chance, but he hadn’t known that at the time. So what had it been about the sight of them together in the young Drysdale’s car, and then later in hers that unsettled him so much?
He could swear it felt like he was losing his—
His phone rang three times before he plucked it from the charger at his desk. Unknown number, but it had a South Boston area code.
“Is this Detective Blanc?” the voice on the other end asked. Young, probably a woman, with an accent similar to Marta’s.
‘Please, call me Mr. Blanc,” he replied, settled down at his desk. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking—”
“I’m Alice, Marta Cabrera’s sister,” she jumped in. “I found your number online. You remember Marta, right?” And the concern was apparent.
“I could hardly forget her,” he assured Alice, tapping down a spike of concern. “Has something happened?”
For as quickly as the younger Cabrera spoke, she seemed to struggle with what to say next. “Look, this isn’t a favor, like, I can pay you, you know, but I need you to talk some sense into Marta. She won’t listen to me and I can’t tell mom about what’s happening because she will freak out but Marta is being Marta—”
“First off, Miss Cabrera—”
“Call me Alice,” she ordered with the snap of youthful impatience.
“Alice. From the beginning. Now, has something happened to Marta?”
“No. But something might and she’s not taking it seriously.”
“Is she being threatened?”
“We were doxxed. Like, really bad. And we had to stay at that creepy old house for days because like, that old guy she was friend’s with, like, his house is unsearchable, he was like, super paranoid, right because of his fans, and he liked to think he could be, like, untraceable and stuff? So Marta had us pack everything up and put stuff in storage and she was like, don’t worry, we’re going to find a new place to live, someplace way safer, and then like, mom was finally able to get a green card so Marta sent her to to visit our family in Phoenix, and mom hasn’t seen them since before like I was born, it’s a big deal. She just couldn’t risk it before. And Marta was like, hey, that deadline for that study abroad you’ve been wanting to do is still open, you should go while I handle all this mess, don’t worry about it, don’t worry about the cost, I’ll have us all set up someplace really nice once you get back, leave it to me—and look, getting doxxed was AWFUL, I didn’t want to deal with it so I just figured ok sure, let Marta handle it but now I’m not there and like, people are posting these really awful things about Marta ever since that article--”
Benoit trusted his memory, but he trusted a pad and a pencil moreso, and he paused in his note-taking. “Forgive the interruption, Alice, but what article?”
“The one about the turn over at Blood for Water or whatever being finalized and they interviewed like, that guy’s son and he just said all these things about how it was all stolen from the family’s hands and how they are still grieving not only their father but like his father’s legacy and if you go on Reddit—”
Benoit was familiar with the idea of Reddit. His mouth turned downwards.
“There’s all these fanboys just—look, that shit is upsetting, but like, women get murdered all the time by internet randos and she’s not listening to me, like this isn’t serious and I’m just blowing it all out of proportion, but this is serious, she’s there all by herself and if my sister ends up murdered by some crazy internet creep because she just wouldn’t go to the police I’ll—I’ll—Mr. Blanc—”
“Alice—” he tried to start when he heard her breath start to hitch.
Alice pulled herself together. “But I remembered. She likes that detective that found out she was innocent, like, really likes him, super respects him, right? Maybe she’d listen to him if he was like, hey, take this serious, stop camping in that damn creepy house all alone when all those crazy people online are trying to find you! Go to the cops, file a goddamn report and don’t keep bending over backwards for the goddamn Thrombeys!”
When he could finally get a word in edgewise, he took the opportunity. “Alice, I want to thank you for reaching out. It’s obvious how deeply you care about your sister, and I can assure you I consider this a personal favor. There is absolutely no need for payment. Now, I’m going to give you my email, and I want you to send me everything you’ve found so far. Now I’m going to do more research myself, and—” he checked the time. He might still be able to reach out to Marta before it got too late if he could be quick about it. He wanted no further delay, but he wanted to understand the situation as fully as possible.
“Yea, yea, ok, I’ve got like, a Google folder, I’ll share the link,” she said, and he could hear the quick, small sniffles on the other line. “Look, when you talk to Marta, don’t let her think you don’t think she can handle it, ok? She’s super stubborn—”
“Stubborn?” he repeated, and he felt surprised by that.
“Oh my God you have no idea. When she decides she knows best it’s like—” And the noise Alice made was universal.
He assured Alice again he would do what he could, and double checked if the number in his phone was still Marta’s.
“Oh, you saved that?” Alice asked, surprised. “Yea, it’s still her number, though who knows if it’ll be for long if it gets leaked.”
“Well, then best not to dawdle then,” he offered. He gave her his email, again his assurance he would do everything possible, and his goodbyes.
The younger Cabrera hung up, and Benoit woke his desktop up to begin.
When the truth was revealed, often it was not the last he saw of the parties involved. He was anticipating having to testify at Hugh Ransom Drysdale’s trial in the spring, for example. But this was new territory for him.
As he put his focus towards the problem at hand, in the back of his mind was the realization that he had to approach this not as the great Benoit Blanc—
But as a friend.