“I mean,” I began, before she could answer, “haven’t you heard from him since…?”
“Since February,” she affirmed. “André informed me that he was fine, that’s all.”
“Yes, and that was…?”
“You said he looked good, didn’t you, Vera?”
Ah, the chivalrous Bastian coming to the rescue. I managed a nod, lips pulling into a polite smile, though my mind felt like a blank page.
“He did,” I replied. “Very good.”
“My colleague had a chat with him just yesterday,” Bastian added.
Ivet’s face lit up.
“Really? Tell me, girl, how is he?”
This was my moment. The reason André had sent me here. Bastian had already won Ivet over; now it was my turn to tip the balance to our side.
“Mr. Larousse isn’t doing well. It’s difficult for him not to be able to return home, to be away from the people he loves.”
“I see. Just as I imagined,” she replied, her tone dripping with a rehearsed sympathy.
Ivet placed her hand on her chest in a gesture so dramatic it felt almost theatrical. As I’d suspected, Ivet cared about Mr. Larousse, but there was someone she cared about even more: herself.
Timotheo Larousse had warned me.
“He can return if André wins the case. There’s no evidence incriminating Mr. Larousse, and it’s vital that we maintain positive public opinion,” I shift positions, trying to look certain. “If we can get the press on our side, you and the family will just look like victims of the legal system.”
Ivet fixed her watery gaze on some distant point behind me. She shook her shoulders a couple of times, as if holding back tears, and then, as if nothing had happened, she composed herself.
It took her five seconds flat to drop that fake sorrowful posture. Even I could have held it longer. With a sharp voice, forgetting all caution, she said something that caught me off guard:
“Then I hope you’ve spoken to her and aren’t wasting time with me.”
“Who?” I asked.
A slow, satisfied smile curled across Ivet’s lips.
“Eloïse, obviously. Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore.”
“Don’t worry,” Bastian interrupted. “She isn’t a threat.”
Luckily, I’m a huge gossip. Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore is, in addition to being the biological daughter of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore and the adopted daughter of Timotheo Larousse, a fashion influencer. I admit it was a big mistake on my part to not remember her until now. I follow her on all my social media accounts.
“Are you sure about that?” Ivet dragged out her words.
“Wait,” I said. “Does Eloïse know her parents were planning a divorce?”
“Of course,” she cackled. “How could she not know?”
“Mr. Larousse told us she didn’t. That they were going to wait until her birthday to tell her,” I blurted out, realizing how naive I sounded the moment the words left my mouth.
“Eloïse is no longer a little girl you can fool,” she pointed a round finger at us. “She hasn’t gone to see her father. Did you know that? Not once. I know because she told me herself.”
Mr. Larousse had claimed he hadn’t seen his daughter, but I couldn’t tell if he’d lied or if he truly thought Eloïse didn’t know about the divorce. It wasn’t hard to imagine a father wanting to protect his daughter, still believing she could live in a bubble of innocence. But was that why Eloïse had stayed away all these months? Was it anger? Or something more? Could Eloïse believe Timotheo murdered her mother?
“How did Eloïse find out about the divorce?” I pressed. Bastian elbowed me again, but I kept talking. “Did Antonia tell her?”
