Chapter 8
I expected Ivet to look like one of those matriarchs from a Spanish soap opera.
You know, those who slink around with faces stretched tight from Botox and age, pearl necklaces dangling over their sharp collarbones, throwing scathing insults over their shoulders.
I guess it’s because that’s the mental picture I’ve always had of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore, and I figured any woman who’d spent years living under the same roof as her would have to be a carbon copy, right? I wasn’t entirely wrong.
The woman who greeted us at the door was a lady with fine black hair, tied back in a loose, low ponytail. She was tall and heavyset, almost Bastian’s height, and wore a red kitchen apron, almost as red as the blush that graced her tight cheekbones.
At some point over the weekend, someone mentioned that the three women in that house—Antonia, her daughter, and Ivet—had this weird way of mirroring each other.
They all spoke with that slow, deliberate drag, stretching out their vowels like they were savouring them, and crossed their legs the exact same way when they sat down.
“You’re the lawyers Saidi’s sending.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“You’re late,” she said, her high-pitched voice twisting my insides.
She led us inside. The house was modest, but the textured orange walls seemed to vibrate with clutter.
Porcelain dolls with vacant stares, mismatched display dishes, and delicate glass figurines were scattered everywhere, and I felt I was entering a long-abandoned museum exhibit.
Following Ivet through the room was like trying to navigate through a foggy haze: dust and cigarette ash coated every surface, which made me blink.
I scrunched up my nose, watching the motes of dust float like stardust in the stagnant air. The room smelled musty.
I perched on the sofa next to Bastian, and a cloud of dust puffed up from the cushions. It drifted around us, and Bastian let out a muffled noise that I suspected was a suppressed laugh. I shot him a disapproving glance, guessing he was holding back a quip.
Ivet settled across from us, indifferent to the mess. You’d think someone who made a living cleaning would keep their own place in better shape. There was an odd smell of something burning, but it wasn’t the cigarettes.
“We’re sorry, Mrs. Britwistle,” Bastian said, trying to sound earnest. “We had to make a stop on the way.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” she replied. “I was about to have my meal. Do you mind? I don’t want to eat too late. Upsets my stomach.”
She left the room. I looked back at Bastian. His smile had shifted to a slight purse of his lips. When Ivet returned, she carried a tray with a bowl overflowing with soup and a silver spoon. She placed it in front of herself on a low dining table and took the bowl onto her lap.
“I’d offer you some, but I didn’t make enough for the three of us,” she said with a giggle.
Oh, come on. I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
“Don’t worry, we didn’t come here to eat,” I said, pulling out my phone. I hit the record button and set the phone on the table next to the empty tray. “I hope you don’t mind us recording. It’s more efficient than taking notes, and we want to make sure we don’t waste any more of your time.”
Bastian cleared his throat before speaking.
“Mrs. Britwistle…”
“Call me Ivet.”
“Alright, Ivet. Our boss came to speak with you a few months ago.”
“I remember. A very kind man.” She sipped the soup directly from the bowl and smiled. “You remind me of him, boy. You have the same face shape.”
“Do you remember what you talked about?” I interrupted.
“Yes, as if it were just yesterday.”
“Then you’ll know why we’re here,” Bastian lifted a brow.
Ivet slurped from her bowl until it was finished. She placed it empty on the tray and crossed her legs.
“I can imagine the why, yes. You want to know what I told the police.”
“More or less,” Bastian smiled with his teeth. “We understand that Mr. Larousse and Mrs. Hawtrey-Moore had discussed a divorce.”
Her posture changed at the mention of that word. She straightened in her chair, suddenly aware that we were lawyers and that there was a recorder in front of her, documenting everything.
“It may be that they considered it at some point. As far as I know, they hadn’t made it official yet.”
I leaned in, adjusting my posture to match hers.
I’d read somewhere that mirroring someone’s body language can make them more receptive; I thought it might be useful for a date night or something.
But honestly, it all seemed pointless when I saw her eyes locked on Bastian, almost like I wasn’t even there.
“According to what Mr. Larousse told us,” I said, trying to push those thoughts out of my mind, “it would be made official after his daughter’s birthday.”
That seemed to surprise her. Her eyes turned to me, her thin, soup-wet lips tightening.
“He told you that? Then I suppose it must be true. I wasn’t aware.”
Liar. I almost screamed it in her face. Blatant lie! Beside me, Bastian tensed.
“Ivet, all we want is to make sure no one else knows they were going to separate, other than us,” he said, looking at the woman as if she were his accomplice. “No one who isn’t worth our trust, I mean.”
Fucking Bastian. How was he so charming in these situations? His calm demeanour and easy smile were magnetic, drawing out every little detail. I could see the way Ivet’s gaze softened when she looked at him, a flicker of something almost tender in her eyes.
“I understand. Tell me, is Tim okay?” A fine wrinkle appeared on her forehead. “I’m worried about how they might be treating him in prison.”
“Haven’t you visited him?” I asked.
Bastian jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. I shot him a sidelong glance, wondering if I’d just stepped into a minefield. Was Ivet not permitted to see Mr. Larousse?
I had to admit it, emotional intelligence wasn’t my forte.
“I mean,” I began, before she could answer, “haven’t you heard from him since…?”
“Since February,” she affirmed. “André informed me that he was fine, that’s all.”
“Yes, and that was…?”
“You said he looked good, didn’t you, Vera?”
Ah, the chivalrous Bastian coming to the rescue. I managed a nod, lips pulling into a polite smile, though my mind felt like a blank page.
“He did,” I replied. “Very good.”
“My colleague had a chat with him just yesterday,” Bastian added.
Ivet’s face lit up.
“Really? Tell me, girl, how is he?”
This was my moment. The reason André had sent me here. Bastian had already won Ivet over; now it was my turn to tip the balance to our side.
“Mr. Larousse isn’t doing well. It’s difficult for him not to be able to return home, to be away from the people he loves.”
“I see. Just as I imagined,” she replied, her tone dripping with a rehearsed sympathy.
Ivet placed her hand on her chest in a gesture so dramatic it felt almost theatrical. As I’d suspected, Ivet cared about Mr. Larousse, but there was someone she cared about even more: herself.
Timotheo Larousse had warned me.
“He can return if André wins the case. There’s no evidence incriminating Mr. Larousse, and it’s vital that we maintain positive public opinion,” I shift positions, trying to look certain. “If we can get the press on our side, you and the family will just look like victims of the legal system.”
Ivet fixed her watery gaze on some distant point behind me. She shook her shoulders a couple of times, as if holding back tears, and then, as if nothing had happened, she composed herself.
It took her five seconds flat to drop that fake sorrowful posture. Even I could have held it longer. With a sharp voice, forgetting all caution, she said something that caught me off guard:
“Then I hope you’ve spoken to her and aren’t wasting time with me.”
“Who?” I asked.
A slow, satisfied smile curled across Ivet’s lips.
“Elo?se, obviously. Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore.”
“Don’t worry,” Bastian interrupted. “She isn’t a threat.”
Luckily, I’m a huge gossip. Elo?se Hawtrey-Moore is, in addition to being the biological daughter of Antonia Hawtrey-Moore and the adopted daughter of Timotheo Larousse, a fashion influencer.
I admit it was a big mistake on my part to not remember her until now.
I follow her on all my social media accounts.
“Are you sure about that?” Ivet dragged out her words.
“Wait,” I said. “Does Elo?se know her parents were planning a divorce?”
“Of course,” she cackled. “How could she not know?”
“Mr. Larousse told us she didn’t. That they were going to wait until her birthday to tell her,” I blurted out, realizing how naive I sounded the moment the words left my mouth.
“Elo?se is no longer a little girl you can fool,” she pointed a round finger at us. “She hasn’t gone to see her father. Did you know that? Not once. I know because she told me herself.”
Mr. Larousse had claimed he hadn’t seen his daughter, but I couldn’t tell if he’d lied or if he truly thought Elo?se didn’t know about the divorce.
It wasn’t hard to imagine a father wanting to protect his daughter, still believing she could live in a bubble of innocence.
But was that why Elo?se had stayed away all these months?
Was it anger? Or something more? Could Elo?se believe Timotheo murdered her mother?
“How did Elo?se find out about the divorce?” I pressed. Bastian elbowed me again, but I kept talking. “Did Antonia tell her?”
“Antonia! No, my dear friend tried to protect the girl almost as much as Tim did. I was the one who told her.”
“You? Why?”
“Elo?se is…” Bastian said, giving up on trying to get my attention. “Closer to you than to her parents, isn’t she?”
She nodded, pleased.
“We’ve grown up together. I was still young when I started working for the family. The little one trusts me.”
Looking at her, it was hard to imagine this woman ever being young, let alone when Antonia Hawtrey-Moore’s daughter—supposedly my age—was little.