“Alright.” His voice was nothing more than a raspy whisper.
“Can you recount what happened on the afternoon of February 11th?”
February 11th. I didn’t remember the exact date, but I knew that Antonia’s death had occurred around that time. The news had covered the case for hours, for days, until a more significant story emerged. Here’s what I remembered from the news reports: Antonia Hawtrey-Moore was twenty years older than Larousse. They first crossed paths at a charity dinner in Paris back in 2008, when she was still married to her ex-husband, and their relationship began that very same night. Larousse had adopted Hawtrey-Moore’s daughter as his own, but she had kept her distance from him since his arrest.
“Ah. I’m so damn tired of repeating this story.” He slumped back in his chair. “Antonia had been acting strangesince the weekend. Damn it! She had been acting strange for weeks. But that’s how women are. What do I know? I have a daughter around your age,” he said, almost without looking at me. “My Antonia was like those Russian nesting dolls—you open one, and there’s another, and another smaller one inside that, and so on. Every so often, you’d discover a new facet of her. I thought whatever phase she was going through would pass. She was distant, spending every morning with her cricket group and every afternoon at bingo with Ivet. Ivet is our housekeeper. She cleans; she cooks… When the girl was little, she took care of her. So many years with her in the house made us close. That day… it was Wednesday, I think. I was in my dungeon. I call it that, but it’s just a living room. A space just for me. In a house full of women… I’m straying from the point. I was talking to some friends on FaceTime. Joseph Badou and Antoine Benit. They’ve corroborated this, I believe. That’s when Antonia and Ivet started shouting at each other. You could hear it throughout the house. I don’t know what the argument was about. Honestly, it was embarrassing me. Antonia knocked on my door after a while and asked me to come out, so I ended the call. She was very upset. Ivet had quit and left the house. I rested my hand gently on her arm, feeling her tremble beneath my grip, and promised her I’d go after Ivet and convince her to come back. She begged me to do it as soon as possible, saying she couldn’t bear the thought of losing such a dear friend. So, I went to Ivet’s house to fetch her. When I came back…”
Larousse sighed again.
“Antonia was already dead,” André concluded for him. “According to your first statement, Timotheo, you left the house around three and returned soon after eight.”
“Ivet insisted I had dinner with her before leaving, yes.”
“And according to the paramedics, Antonia had been dead for at least three hours by the time the ambulance arrived.”
The little man nodded.
“That’s right.”
André flipped through his file and slid a sheet across the table, angling it toward me. I leaned in, scanning the page. This woman, Ivet, had backed up Larousse’s story.
“You see, Tim, I need you to be honest with me. This weird situation with your wife that you mentioned… Is there anything else I should know about? Anything that could be used against you?”
The man looked in my direction. He furrowed his brow and turned his attention back to my boss, whispering, “De quoi tu parles, mon ami? Qu’est-ce que tu sais?”
I rolled my eyes, and my boss stifled a laugh.
“I don’t know anything. I can only make guesses. Let me see…” He imitated Larousse’s tone and his raspy voice. “Elle t’a trompé ? Peut-être que… Non. Étiez-vous en train de vous séparer ?”
He wanted to know if Antonia had been unfaithful, if they were in the middle of a divorce. I translated his meaning in my head, watching Larousse’s expression shift. Before he could respond, André continued, his tone steady:
“Ah, Tim, just so you know, my colleague here understands French. So, no secrets, okay? I’m your lawyer. I need to know everything that could surface during the trial. And she’s here to help me.”
The little man buried his head in his hands.
“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“About what? The cheating, the divorce, or that youshouldn’t keep secrets from me?”
“The last one.” He fiddled with his shirt sleeve. “And also, about the divorce. I’m sorry I hid it from you until now, André… It’s just not a topic I’m comfortable with. We weren’t going to separate yet, understood? My Antonia had only told me about her wishes once, about a month before… before… You know.”
“You didn’t talk about it again?”
“No, my friend, no… Well, yes. Shortly after, she said we’d wait until after our daughter’s birthday to talk to her family’s lawyers. It was this week. Her birthday, I mean. My little girl just turned 21.” Mr. Larousse turned the corners of his mouth down, looking like a rag doll. “I haven’t been able to wish her a happy birthday.”
André coughed.
“So, no lawyer was aware?”
“No.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“Ivet, she knows everything about us. And maybe some of my wife’s friends, her cricket and polo acquaintances. I’m not sure about that.”
My boss put his hands on his hips, signalling that his part of the conversation was over.
“Alright. That won’t look good for you, Tim, but if it doesn’t come to light, there won’t be a problem. We’ll have to convince her to keep quiet.”
