Ah, the photo. I place the phone on the table and show it to her. In the picture, the entire Dubois family is beaming at the camera: Antonia, Laurent Dubois, a very young Eloïse, and a young Enzo. And an Ivet Britwistle I don’t quite recognise.
I got lucky making friends with Laurent Dubois’s circle while I was at the estate. Vera, however, was clear about one thing: no asking Eloïse for her photo. It’s been a brutal few days, and Eloïse, recovering from a gunshot wound, deserves her space.
Still, trying to get a copy of a photo I’d seen hanging in Eloïse’s living room from her family friends felt like stepping into creep territory—like I was some kind of obsessive or lunatic that couldn’t let the Dubois family go. It’s fortunate that their case is getting so much media coverage, and that Saidi is, in one way or another, involved in all three cases, because my request didn’t seem as strange as it should. Who was it? Benit? Yes, it was Benit who sent me the photo. Not without first asking for a favour in return. That’s how rich people do everything. A favour for a favour. I’d rather not say what it was.
“This is great!” Vera exclaims, shoving the phone in my face. “It’s not her!”
“Well, no, she isn’t the Ivet we met,” I murmur under my breath. “We’ll need to convince the police to dig deeper into it.”
Four days ago, a police officer paid Ivet a visit at 5 Left on Bluegrass Street, the same place where Vera and I had gone to interview her. They checked her documents, her background, and her history. Everything fit. That woman is Ivet Britwistle, onlyshe’s notIvet Britwistle.
“Good luck with that,” she says, her voice clipped as she bites her lip.
I watch her mouth, the way her teeth press into her lower lip as if she’s holding back more than just words, and her eyes pierce through mine for a heartbeat before drifting backto the phone. That alone is enough to stir something in my chest, and I have to remind myself that we can’t do this. We’re playing with fire here.
I try to refocus. The police won’t lift a finger at her request, not with the charges stacked against her. But if Saidi Lawyers got involved… If we had a plausible explanation for the request….
“It has to be the work of the Counterfeiter,” I say.
Vera considers my words, her gaze steady and thoughtful. She leans forward, both elbows resting on the table, drawing closer as if she’s about to share a secret.
“Yes, I thought of that.” Her smile is defiant, almost daring, and I sigh, so drawn to it that it almost scares me. “Do you have any theories as to why?” she asks, tilting her head with a hint of playful curiosity.
I open my mouth to respond, but she cuts me off before I can speak.
“Neither do I,” she says, finishing my thought with a touch of dry humour.
Now it’s my turn to mimic her gesture. I rest my elbows on the table and cradle my head in my hands. It feels almost absurd to be so engrossed in this, considering the importance of Vera’s own case, considering the importance of my own case, the Garros trial, yet I can’t deny the pull of the moment. I would let everything go and focus on getting a good deal for Garros if this weren’t so important for Vera.
I tap the table. There’s something we’re overlooking. Something that could change the outcome of the Garros case, of Enzo’s, of Larousse’s. Ivet Britwistle is a key player in all these cases. What I don’t know is why or how she came to be one.
Vera fixes me with a cold stare, her eyes narrowing in frustration.
“You have to talk to them,” she insists.
We keep returning to the same discussion as a tired old record since getting back from Bordeaux. Each time, my response is the same, though it feels like I’m growing wearier of repeating it.
“It’s not the right time, Vera.”
One more week, I tell her. One more week and I’ll talk to the police again. One more week and, if necessary, I’ll drag André with me to the police station for credibility (and emotional support) and force them to look into the matter. But it is in my interest that all this happens after my trial. I already have too much new information to act on.
There is nothing I want less than to see the faces of Officer Alonso and that other woman again. I keep having nightmares about the weekend.
“It’s now or never!” Vera exclaims, her voice rising. “You know that Garros faked this whole woman’s identity. You know it!” She grabs my hand. “Aren’t you curious why? Please.”
I hesitate, the warmth of her hand contrasting with the cold sweat on my own. Her fingers tighten around mine, and I can’t ignore the rush that sparks between us. It’s undeniable, yet we both try our best to ignore it. Her eyes lock onto mine.
“I…” I falter, her touch sending an electric shiver up my arm.
“Tell me the truth, Bastian,” she presses, her gaze piercing through me.
I feel like I’m suffocating under the burden, unable to breathe. I pull my hand away, but the lingering warmth stillthere.
“I can’t,” I admit, my voice cracking. “We can’t delay the trial any longer,” I finish, my voice almost a whisper, my eyes shifting away from hers.
I’ve spent months waiting for an opportunity like this, trying to get to where I am now. I’m willing to reopen the case for Vera if I can get André to win the trial. But I don’t want to delay my moment any longer.
I don’t allow myself to do it.
