“Is she dead?”
“Is she dead?”
After the ambulance arrived, the police came, and the whispers shifted.
“She’s dead.”
“Who could have done it?”
They cordoned off the stairs with yellow tape and removed everyone from the house.
Gina’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open as she froze, the colour draining from her face. Somehow, Bastian managed to push both of us into a police car. We spent several hours at the station, the Bordeaux Gendarmerie running around, interviewing everyone who had been at the Dubois mansion that afternoon.
No one had seen anything suspicious. No one had noticed any change in the victim or any of the guests. No one had heard the first gunshot. No one had had any contact with Eloïse Hawtrey-Moore since lunch.
Except for me.
I was the last person who had seen her. I was the last person who had spoken to her.
I kept that detail to myself. If I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible, I had to stay silent. Confessing wouldn’t help; my conversation with Eloïse couldn’t clarifywhat had happened afterwards. I knew that placing Eloïse chronologically in one room or another in the house would help them understand what had happened. But that wasn’t my problem.
I’d had enough.
Bastian spent a long time arguing with one of the police officers, who insisted on keeping us there until they clarified the situation. I don’t know how he did it, but soon after, Gina, he, and I were on the first flight back to London.
“Bastian,” I said once the plane took off, trying not to disturb Gina. “I have something important to tell you.”
Bastian glanced my way, his head tilted to the left. I could only imagine how tough this was for him. He had known Eloïse for months, and despite their complicated relationship, he was the type who never wished harm on anyone. It had been an emotional rollercoaster for all of us. But I had to get this weight off my chest. This piece of information I didn’t know what to do with.
“What’s wrong?” Bastian asked, concern etched across his face.
“Earlier, when we were in the living room waiting for dinner, I saw…”
Bastian jumped, sitting up straighter. He leaned closer to me and lowered his voice until I could barely hear him.
“You saw something? Do you know who did it?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
I shook my head. “It has nothing to do with Eloïse,” I said, tracing the name of the girl with my lips without saying it out loud, in case Gina could hear me. “It’s about Ivet.”
Bastian’s frown deepened, his eyebrows sinking further.
“Ivet Birtwistle? The nanny?”
“I saw a picture of her. It was from many years ago, but…”
“But what?”
“But I remember her face; her features were very distinctive.” I tried not to raise my voice, but fear made it come out higher than I intended. “Bastian, the woman we went to visit isn’t Ivet Birtwistle. She was someone pretending to be her.”
MONDAY, El Lunes, Le Lundi
Chapter 34
VERA
“That’s all.” The words echo in my mind, and as I brush a tear from my cheek, I realise I’ve been crying.
I’ve been a pawn all along. A mere pawn in the Dubois family’s game, a toy in Enzo Woods’ hands.
