SS: That’s what I was getting at. This photograph… First, the press thought that, just hours after his wife’s death, Larousse had decided to go out for dinner with a colleague. Odd behaviour, to say the least. Then, someone revealed the identity of the “colleague.” The story took a new turn, but not in a different direction. Larousse had met with a lawyer to represent him. That’s how the press saw it. That’s how we saw it. Saidi is a small firm… My uncle is a very private man. Had Larousse asked him to be his lawyer in the case? Sarah thought so. I had my doubts. But if that meeting had another purpose besides that, we couldn’t know. André became Larousse’s lawyer on February 15.
Officer AM: Did André talk to you about the case?
SS: Of course, of course. I’m the heir to Saidi; I need to learn from him. My uncle and Timotheo Larousse have been friends for years. I had met Larousse years ago, once. I know he doubts Larousse’s innocence… But isn’t that his job? To dig up each client’s dirty laundry and then hide it, hoping the judge never finds it? The legal field is morally complex. Idon’t know if Larousse is innocent or not; I don’t want to know. What’s my conclusion, after seeing André’s defence?
Officer AM: What is it, Mr. Saidi?
SS: Timotheo Larousse is innocent of killing his wife. Someone killed Antonia Hawtrey-Moore, but there’s no doubt that it wasn’t her husband.
Officer AM: I understand that you are close to the Hawtrey-Moore family, though not to Larousse. Tell me, what would you think if you didn’t know your uncle’s defence? Would you still believe in his innocence?
(Sebastian Saidi smiles. It doesn’t last long. The expression fades from his face as if it had never been there.)
SS: No. I wouldn’t believe it. Nor would I believe he’s guilty. To be honest, I wouldn’t know what to believe. A lot of time has passed. No one has confessed. Do you have a suspect? Is that why you’re asking me these questions?
Officer AM: The case has not been resolved yet, Mr. Saidi. Your uncle’s trial is scheduled for next week, if I’m not mistaken. You’ll have to wait to hear the judge’s opinion, like everyone else. I’m afraid the rest of the information is confidential.
Chapter 19
That charity event was nothing like the one at Club Montari, but even though it wasn’t a party, I was having a great time. The money had already been raised. The formal photos had been taken. And the press had been dismissed. All it took was a few more speeches from Laurent Dubois and the benefactor who organised the event, a countless number of waiters serving champagne left and right, and a group of wealthy drunks locked away in a room, for the fun to start. The party practically threw itself.
And by “party,” I mean disaster.
Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore danced at the centre of the room, surrounded by a group of girls our age. Antoine and Joseph kept insisting I join them, claiming Eloïse would love it if I did. But I knew better. The real reason, judging by their tipsy grins, was that they just wanted to watch me dance. And let’s be real: this dress wasn’t made for any brisk moves. Alex, who had also noticed, led me to a corner away from the two men that, coincidentally, was closer to a group of girls who seemed to be “daughters of” and glanced left and right with bored eyes.
“Do you think any of them will dance with me?” he asked, a rosy blush spreading across his cheeks.
I was beginning to doubt that my companion was even old enough to be in high school, let alone talk to twenty-year-old girls. But I could use a laugh.
“Go for it, champ.”
Finally alone, I glanced around for any sign that Laurent Dubois was still around. The host had disappeared after the pictures, rushing outside with a woman. His new wife, I suppose. I feared the worst. What if they had left? What if I had missed my chance? What if…?
“What if you tell me what you’re really doing here, Vera?”
Bastian. His lips brushed my ear, his calm voice carrying an edge of aggression.
I turned around and looked him in the eyes. The thick-rimmed glasses didn’t hide his gaze. Dark, intense. Ready to put me in my place, to drag me down to the ground if necessary.
Luckily for me, I knew better than anyone what my place was.
I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the centre ofthe room, which had transformed into an impromptu dance floor. With a quick motion, I guided his hands to my hips and began dancing to the beat.
“To dance,” I said. “And, unless you want to look like a complete novice, you’d better keep up.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, I thought he might pull away and escape. But then his hands settled more firmly on my hips, and he leaned in, pressing his body against mine.
“I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself,” he replied, his smile widening.
I couldn’t help but smile back, feeling a sudden light-headedness.
“Good to hear,” I said.
He glanced over at Alex, who was surrounded by a group of laughing girls. Whether they were laughing at him or with him, he seemed to be enjoying himself, and my concerns were bigger than a 13-year-old’s reputation.
“What about your friend?” he asked, his tone casual but curious.
My hips swayed to the rhythm of the music. Bastian repositioned his arms and turned me around, pressing my back against his chest as he lifted me again.
