“Didn’t you talk to Julian yesterday?” he asked, irritated by the change in plans.
“I forgot to ask him an important question. I need the answer before the trial.”
He shook his head in disapproval.
“It’ll only be a minute,” I added.
“We’re going to be late for the meeting with Larousse’s maid.”
I brought the car to a stop, slinging my bag over my shoulder before stepping out. Bastian rolled down the passenger-side window and signalled for me to come closer.
“Hey, can I at least stay in the car? It’s freezing out here.”
“I have an errand for you.” Just because he wasn’t my chauffeur didn’t mean he couldn’t be my coffee boy for the day. Since he was already here, he might as well be useful. “There’s a café around the corner. I’ll text you my order.”
He tried to protest, but I was already walking away from the car. With each step towards the prison, the knot in my chest tightened a little more, as if it were being pulled from both ends.
Julian wasn’t surprised to see me there again. I had left the day before with a question lingering in my mind. I sat down, and he straightened up, daring me to continue the interrogation we had left unfinished. What did he mean by one of his clients being there?
I didn’t ask. The letter and the money occupied every corner of my thoughts. Right now, nothing else mattered.
I took a stack of papers out of my bag and slammed it against the glass so he could see it as clearly as possible. His eyes narrowed into thin slits, scanning the document, only the way a good forger would know how.
He raised an eyebrow.
I had managed to surprise him.
“This is fake,” I said, with determination in my voice.
He shifted his gaze from the document to me, his expression unreadable.
“I thought you wanted to show me how lucky I am to have such an… illustrious lawyer,” he replied, irony coating his words.
I was not in the mood for mockery.
“Do you know anything about this?”
His expression gave nothing away.
“Looks amateur. I don’t know what else to tell you, Vera.”
Someone was watching us. The guard by the door and someone else through a security camera in the ceiling. I didn’t know how to ask the next question. I got creative.
“So, this wasn’t your work?”
I already knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
“No.”
“But…” I began, “It had to be done by someone with a lot of money.”
“what makes you ask that, Vera?”
I started scratching the table with my nails. I wanted to ask him out loud what kind of person plays with falsifications; what kind of person would use them as a form of extortion. Have you ever heard, Julian, of someone who uses forged documents as part of a challenge? No, better yet, as part of a twistedgame?
The question wanted to slip off my tongue like a whip, but I held it back. If anyone had answers, it had to be the Counterfeiter, the king of forgery himself, right?
But Julian Garros doesn’t give in without a fight.
