“You assured me you know my son well,” he said.
I couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at the irony of that statement. Last night, I thought I knew Enzo. At that moment, I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I knew him much better than a few hours ago. Maybe I had never known him at all.
“That’s what I said.”
If Mr Dubois noticed any trace of resentment in my voice, he didn’t mention it. He leaned back in the chair and scrutinised me with his gaze for a few uncomfortable minutes.
“You’ll know, then…” he added after a pause, leaning toward me, “why he decided to come home after so many years.”
That was the issue. I remembered what he had told me the night before, after inviting me to brunch with them. And, therefore, to spend the entire Sunday at the mansion. I struggled to understand his motives.
“Yes,” I replied, meeting his gaze, “I do.”
Though I couldn’t reveal the reason.
If I wanted to return to London as soon as possible, it was better if Laurent Dubois didn’t know about the money that had vanished without a trace from his club and appeared at the foot of my bed.
But the next question he asked me threw me off:
“Do you still think you know him well after spending the morning with us?”
I frowned. One thing had become evident during my time at the mansion: I didn’t know Enzo at all. Admitting that to Laurent Dubois was off the table.
“Yes.”
“I suppose you won’t mind telling me, then, what my son is doing here,” a dark shadow clouded his eyes, “nothing less than accompanied by… a girl like you.”
I shook my head.
“What does it matter that he came with me?”
“Not much,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve never been too fond of foreigners, but that’s not a pressing matter here. It just seems strange to me that my two children brought two members of Saidi to Bordeaux, in the same weekend, that’s all.”
I parted my lips, searching for a response that wouldn’t come.
My origins mattered little. Bastian was there for reasons similar to mine. He was investigating Julian’s case; I was investigating the mystery of the money.
The two things seemed to be much more related than I first thought.
“Why do you think we’re here, Mr. Dubois?” I hissed.
The man curled his lips in a grim smile.
“Have you had the chance to see my late ex-wife’s inheritance, Vera?”
“No,” I swallowed, “the case of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore’s murder is handled by my boss. I haven’t been involved in it.”
“It’s a shame. I haven’t either. But… I know Antonia wouldn’t have left Enzo with nothing of value.”
I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Why?”
He shrugged even more, making him look like a floating head over gaunt, angular shoulders.
“Call it intuition.”
I pressed my lips together. I knew that Antonia hadn’t left anything of value to Enzo, so if it wasn’t that… what could Laurent Dubois suspect it was? And what could he believe his son wanted from the family at a time like this?
