Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vera pursing her lips.
“And then?” she prompts.
Her insistence is almost funny. I clear my throat.
“The trial is Wednesday morning,” I say. “I’ll talk to the police that same afternoon. I promise.”
A smile returns to Vera’s lips, and I lose all my guards.
“Okay,” she says, the word tinged with relief. “Okay.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
Her smile is there, but it’s unreadable. I’ve learned that Vera’s smiles have layers. Sometimes they’re as genuine as anyone’s, and sometimes they’re a prelude to a plan so devious, it’d make you question your very existence.
Now’s not the time for me to test that theory, though. Her eyes are hard, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head, plotting the next move. I felt tempted to lift my hand, to caress the olive skin of her cheeks, to promise I will do everything I can to get the information that we need. But before I can do any of that, she turns on her heels and leaves.
Fucking hell.
I go back to my office. There’s nothing I feel more like doing right now than leaning back in my chair and staring out the window. The afternoon light casts long shadows, andI find myself lost in the view, trying to forget all about this mess. Maybe I should order lunch. It’s five o’clock in the afternoon. Perfect time to bring me a piece of chocolate cake with strawberries from the coffee shop around the corner. And a big cup of coffee, that delicious Colombian brew they have… I don’t like those sweet coffees Vera drinks. I don’t like them at all.
I’m not thinking about Vera.
I’m not.
I pick up the phone and call the coffee shop. When the girl on the other end asks if I want milk or syrup in my American coffee, I almost snap. Since when does an American coffee need milk? I’m about to demand vanilla syrup just to see how ridiculous it sounds.
But then, as if from nowhere, I picture Vera’s face, her preference for that sickly-sweet vanilla syrup. It’s her thing.
I pause, swallow hard, and just order it black.
My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
I sink into my chair and dive into the mess of trial prep. Garros’s trial is next Wednesday, and though Vera’s left everything in prime shape, I still have a mountain of revisions to tackle. I take a deep breath, preparing to dive into my work. Just then, the doorbell cuts through my focus, echoing through the quiet room.
I frown and get up, wondering who the hell could be showing up at this hour. It’s Wednesday, five o’clock. André’s out, and the office is empty.
I think about the piece of cake and the coffee I’ve just ordered, but they’re still fifteen minutes away. Then I entertain the idea that it might be Vera. Maybe she’s forgotten something.
I shake my head, scolding myself.Forget it, Bastian. This is getting ridiculous.
I look through the doorway camera, but the caller is too close, and all I can see is a smear of blue clothing.
“Saidi&Co,” I say, picking up the phone. “Who is it?”
The person in the doorway turns away from the camera, and then I see that it’s not one person, but two. The one who steps aside to make way for the other person is a policeman. I recognise him. It’s Officer Alonso.
“Hello, Bastian,” says the other person. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour. André was kind enough to tell us you’d be here. Can we talk?”
Enzo Woods’s tone is all business, but there’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that I can see even through the camera. He’s probably the last person I wanted to see right now.
But I can’t help but wonder what this is about.
With a deep breath, I press the door release button.
Chapter 40
BASTIAN
