Chapter 39
BASTIAN
I focus on the documents my uncle handed me, doing my best to keep my mind clear of distractions. I’d rather save my tears for when I’m alone, thank you very much. It’s a challenge, with Vera carrying on like everything is normal between us.
It’s as if we were just colleagues.
I get it, I really do. We’re coworkers, and this thing could never work.
But that doesn’t stop it from burning, a pit opening in my chest every time I think about her, about Sunday, about how close I was to having everything I’ve ever wanted.
Oh, damn it. I’m losing track again.
“Bastian?” Vera’s voice breaks through my fog. She’s waving her hand in front of my face. “Are you listening to me?”
I rub my eyebrows with my fingertips and muster a serious expression.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
She narrows her eyes, unimpressed.
“Oh yeah? What was I talking about?”
She’s got me.
I let my shoulders slump and stare down at the papers.
Vera’s defence strategy for André is solid.
If the case hadn’t evolved so much in the past week, it wouldn’t need any adjustments.
The issue is, so much has changed in just seven days.
At least Enzo Woods has decided to get his own lawyer.
No amount of money could have convinced me to defend him, professionalism be damned.
Vera mirrors my posture—something she often does—and folds her arms over her chest, waiting for me to speak.
“I asked you a question,” she says.
I shrug, admitting defeat. I have no clue what she just asked me—my mind’s a bit scattered now. I raise an apologetic eyebrow, hoping Vera will repeat herself.
“Ivet,” she huffs, “I asked if you got the photo.”
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 Elo?se, 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 Elo?se for her photo. It’s been a brutal few days, and Elo?se, recovering from a gunshot wound, deserves her space.
Still, trying to get a copy of a photo I’d seen hanging in Elo?se’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, only she’s not Ivet 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 back to 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 still there.
“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.
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, and I 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.