“Did you get what I asked for?”
He chuckled. “You make it sound like I’m buying you drugs, Virus.”
Bastian pulled two tall plastic cups from the paper bag. He set one on the armrest while I drove and took a sip from his. The cup was filled to the brim with a pink liquid, topped with a swirl of whipped cream and syrup that dripped down the sides. The sip was followed by a fit of coughing.
“What did you order?” I asked.
“The same as you,” he managed through the coughs. “I was curious, okay? I’d never seen a coffee this colour.”
To be honest, I’d never tried it either. “What’s the verdict?”
He set his drink next to mine.
“Let’s just say I don’t know how it doesn’t give you a sugar overdose. I feel like I just licked a magical unicorn.”
We pulled up to number 5 on Bluegrass Street five minutes behind schedule, just as I’d anticipated. The building was surrounded by more housing blocks, with a few supermarkets and a vacant playground nearby. Bastian and I walked to the stairs leading into the building. A wooden plaque with the family name read: Britwistle. We rang the doorbell.
Then, Bastian’s hand brushed against mine, his touch lingering for a heartbeat before he withdrew. I lifted my eyes to meet his, wondering what that meant, but his gaze was elsewhere.
“Don’t say anything out of line,” Bastian warned me.
The door opened before I had a chance to reply.
Excerpt from the Testimony of Ivet Britwistle
Taken on Thursday, February 14
(The witness wipes her tears with a handkerchief.)
IB: It’s very cruel of you to ask me something like this today, don’t you think? It’s Valentine’s Day, and I really love celebrating it. I’m not married, I’m sure you already knew that. Still, there’s this tradition I hold dear… Well, it’s not actually mine. The tradition, I mean. It was something Antonia loved to do, and I always helped her with preparations. A dinner to celebrate love. She was very emotional; Valentine’s Day was her favourite holiday.
Was the meal for her and Mr Larousse? No, not at all. Well, yes. Mr Larousse was there, of course, but it was a meal for family and friends. We celebrated love in all its forms, not just romantic. For one day a year, Antonia would hire a catering service, and all the staff would dine with them. We were like family. We had a large gathering. About thirty guests. Antonia had many single friends, and Tim had manysingle friends. And both had friendships with many couples. It was magical. I’m fond of Regency dramas. When I started working for Antonia and she told me about these celebrations, I was immediately enveloped by the fairy tale aura of those dinners. A real-life fairy tale.
Yes, this year was going to be the same. We had already sent out the invitations. The theme wasAn Evening in Ancient Greece. Very romantic. There was a game related to the theme. She loved these things. The games, I mean. Every Christmas, there was a scavenger hunt. Every Halloween, a game of tag. And every Valentine’s Day, a round of blind man’s bluff. Tim seemed to be as excited about it as always, which wasn’t much, even though he still looked gorgeous on his tunic…, and Antonia had spent a whole month searching for the perfect dress. So yes, I think their relationship was just as it always was. Nothing had changed. Does that answer your question, Officer? Please, don’t make me remember those good times anymore. My heart still thinks I should be at a party right now, not here with you. Antonia’s passing was a very hard blow to the chest. Antonia and I had a fight, yes, but as soon as I stepped out of the mansion, I knew the fight would be over soon. Tim would help. We always managed to settle our differences just in time.
Chapter 8
I expected Ivet to look like one of those matriarchs from a Spanish soap opera.
You know, those who slink around with faces stretched tight from Botox and age, pearl necklaces dangling over their sharp collarbones, throwing scathing insults over their shoulders. I guess it’s because that’s themental picture I’ve always had of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore, and I figured any woman who’d spent years living under the same roof as her would have to be a carbon copy, right? I wasn’t entirely wrong.
The woman who greeted us at the door was a lady with fine black hair, tied back in a loose, low ponytail. She was tall and heavyset, almost Bastian’s height, and wore a red kitchen apron, almost as red as the blush that graced her tight cheekbones.
At some point over the weekend, someone mentioned that the three women in that house—Antonia, her daughter, and Ivet—had this weird way of mirroring each other. They all spoke with that slow, deliberate drag, stretching out their vowels like they were savouring them, and crossed their legs the exact same way when they sat down.
“You’re the lawyers Saidi’s sending.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“You’re late,” she said, her high-pitched voice twisting my insides.
She led us inside. The house was modest, but the textured orange walls seemed to vibrate with clutter. Porcelain dolls with vacant stares, mismatched display dishes, and delicate glass figurines were scattered everywhere, and I felt I was entering a long-abandoned museum exhibit. Following Ivet through the room was like trying to navigate through a foggy haze: dust and cigarette ash coated every surface, which made me blink. I scrunched up my nose, watching the motes of dust float like stardust in the stagnant air. The room smelled musty.
I perched on the sofa next to Bastian, and a cloud of dustpuffed up from the cushions. It drifted around us, and Bastian let out a muffled noise that I suspected was a suppressed laugh. I shot him a disapproving glance, guessing he was holding back a quip.
Ivet settled across from us, indifferent to the mess. You’d think someone who made a living cleaning would keep their own place in better shape. There was an odd smell of something burning, but it wasn’t the cigarettes.
