“Thank you for testifying on my behalf,” I murmur, my voice shaking. “And for lying to the police.”
Enzo’s laugh sounds just as bitter as my words.
“Are you so sure I lied?”
“I know what was in my file,” I say.
“So… you’re welcome, I guess. It was the least I could do.”
“We’re in agreement there.”
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy and awkward. And then, because I can’t help myself, I say what’s been gnawing at me. I regret it the second the words leave my mouth.
“You didn’t have to do anything, despite your mother’s note.”
You didn’t have to drag me into this, or involve your family, or steal the money from the Club Montari, or lie to me in the process of creating the biggest media scandal in history.
I’m not exaggerating. The Dubois, Saidi (and yes, our names, Bastian’s and mine, have also come to light), Garros, Antonia, Larousse, and even that French guy who sold me the ticket to the Dubois family event have appeared in more than one headline. Gina told me that a reporter had chased her mother down Camden’s market until she threw a can of pickled radishes at him.
It’s Enzo’s fault. It’s all Enzo’s fault.
“I know,” he responds with a flat tone. “But that’s who I am. I can’t help it.”
His words only confirm the fact that I have never met the real Enzo Woods.
“Did you even consider not involving me?”
His silence speaks for itself.
Enzo may have liked the idea of me, he may have spoken of me to his mother… but he has neverlovedme. He has nevercared. I have never mattered to him more than himself, than the Counterfeiter, than his family’s games.
“What have you gained from all this?” I ask again.
It is the star question. What all the gossip TV shows and all the tabloids want to know.
Enzo has lost his family. He has lost his best friend. He haslost his freedom.
He has lost me.
I can’t wrap my head around it. No one in their right mind would do something like that.
I hope his answer will make sense of it all, and I clutch the phone in my hand like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.
“It was a game,” he says, his voice thin. “I solved it. And I was trying to help you, Vera. I wanted you to keep the money, but not before solving the game.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, trying to distance myself from the crushing disappointment his answer brings.
“A game,” I echo, the word bitter on my tongue.
“We’re out of time,” he says, the weariness in his voice carrying through the line with a sigh.
“I know,” I reply, and hang up before he can say goodbye, my last, small act of defiance against him.
I realize we may never have another conversation. Perhaps that’s for the best.
André reappears in the living room as soon as the call ends.
