My jaw snaps shut, the words dying on my lips. I still don’t understand his motives. I don’t understand anything.
“That woman,” I mumble, raising my gaze to seek the attention of the two police officers, “the woman Bastian and I went to see. Who is she?”
They exchange a look of confusion.
“Are you sure it wasn’t Ivet Birtwistle, Vera?” Officer Alonso asks, his tone gentle, like he’s speaking to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Maybe that’s all I am right now.
“I’m sure,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
He tenses, his shoulders pulling up as if bracing for impact. “I suppose we can send someone to check it out,” he says, his gaze lingering on me a moment too long, like he’s searching for something beneath my words, beneath my insistence.
Then he leaves. I’m taken back to my cell. I don’t say a word.
“Vera,” my boss says before leaving me alone. Officer Horseface stops but steps away from us, giving us a bit of privacy.
André looks more exhausted than all the police officers in this station put together. His eyes are ringed with dark circles, and his shoulders slump, fraying at the edges. A pang of guilt threatens to throw me off, and I swallow it down. André doesn’t need my poor excuses right now.
But I don’t need more reprimands, either.
“Spare me the talk,” I warn, my voice sharper than intended.
“I was just going to tell you to take care of yourself,” he says with a laugh, but it’s tinged with a condescending edge that grates against my nerves.
“Take care of myself?” I echo, scoffing.
I’ve barely slept, and food feels like an afterthought. I’m running on nothing but coffee and a fading rush of adrenaline. Every time I close my eyes, Eloïse’s body flashes behind my eyelids, clinging to life, still. Ivet’s face blurs in and out, a ghost I can’t place. And always, somewhere in the corners of my mind, there’s Enzo, smirking like this whole chaos is the punchline to the best fucking joke he’s ever told.
Now that the information regarding Julian Garros’s case had taken a turn and the authorities knew the Counterfeiter had been three people all along: Julian, Enzo, and a third person whose name I can’t recall, the trial had been postponed. Everything I had fought for, I had lost.
None of this would go away with a “take care of yourself.” It wouldn’t be fixed by morning jogs or a comfort meal or a mid-afternoon tikka masala chicken with Gina.
“If I need a psychologist after this,” I warn André. “Saidi’s footing the bill.”
“That’s understandable,” he laughs, like it’s all a game.
Everyone’s laughing except me.
“It wasn’t a joke,” I warn, my eyebrow arched, the tension radiating off me like a bad sunburn.
André just nods, pats me on the back like I’m a kid who needs consoling, and walks off. I sink lower in my chair.
I’ve got nothing to laugh about anymore.
Chapter 35
VERA
I suppose I’ll never admit this to the police. My story didn’t begin last Friday, and also not on Thursday. My story began months ago, with a small decision I thought was insignificant. The plot of my life has wound around the seed I planted that day.
The seed of deception, of lies.
That’s why I hired the services of the Counterfeiter.
Money has never been something myfamily has had the luxury to count on. Everyone knows that. Mum’s been stuck in retail her whole life, and my father has always been a blank spot in the family photo, never around, not even a letter for Christmas. I’m the one with the golden ticket: the first to make it to university, the lawyer in the making. The family’s pride and joy. I had my sights set high: working at Saidi was the dream, and I was willing to do whatever it took to achieve it.
At first, things went according to plan. I landed a scholarship to Cutnam, just enough to cover most of the coursework expenses, but I could manage. I aced nearly every class in my first semester, which would allow me to apply for the Chance program. But then, the store where Mum worked closed its doors for good. Bills started piling up, and my rent with Gina wasn’t going to pay itself. So, I juggled classes and a job, doing everything I could to keep us afloat. It was tough, but I managed. Until I didn’t.
Until I ended up under the tutoring of that professor. He specialised in Commercial Law II and taught it like a tyrant. I tried my best, but my best didn’t cut it. I told myself it was just a setback, that I’d nail it once I got the chance to retake the final test. It had to. After all, the luxury of failure was not something I could afford.
