“My name is Gérard Depardieu, I’m an attorney. I’d like to talk to your husband.”
Tiphaine frowned and regarded Depardieu with a penetrating expression that was both curious and skeptical. She looked at her watch.
“He’s not home yet, but he shouldn’t be long.”
“Would you mind if I came in to wait?” Depardieu asked in an ingratiating tone that irritated Tiphaine. She took a moment to reply, clearly not very keen to let him in.
“First you can tell me what this is all about. How do I know you’re really an attorney?”
Gérard gave a broad smile that indicated the obviousness of her request, giving Tiphaine the unpleasant feeling that this was exactly what he had wanted her to ask. She had no need to beg: he drew his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and, as he showed Tiphaine the card that indicated he was a member of the French bar, remarked in a tone that was coolly polite, “Eight years ago I was appointed to represent a certain”—he pretended to search for the name in the file folder he was clutching under his arm—“Monsieur David Brunelle while he was in police custody. He committed suicide not long afterward. As Monsieur Geniot and you are now the legal guardians of my former client’s son, Milo Brunelle, I have a few questions for you.”
Tiphaine felt the ground opening beneath her feet, engulfing her in a vast wave of panic.
Chapter 31
From the look on Tiphaine’s face, Gérard knew he hadn’t come for nothing. She turned pale, and her eyes flickered with unease. But then, in no more than a second or two, he witnessed an extraordinary metamorphosis. Barely had he time to enjoy the effect he’d anticipated than Tiphaine grew stony-faced: her expression became entirely blank apart, perhaps, from a vague hint of physical awkwardness.
“Sure, come on in,” she said in a measured tone. “But just so you know, I don’t have a great deal of time. It’s already late and I haven’t even started on dinner.”
Her mind was racing, but despite her impulse to slam the door in his face, she knew that refusing to let him in would only raise his suspicions.
“Don’t you worry, Madame Geniot. I’ll be the soul of discretion.”
She looked at him as if trying to figure out if what he’d said held some kind of double meaning. By way of an answer, Gérard walked past her into the house, flashing a disingenuous grin whose sole purpose was to erase any other facial expression. Taking advantage of the fact that he had his back to her, Tiphaine let out her alarm with a horrified glance at the ceiling and then pulled herself together and once more put on her expressionless mask.
She showed him into the dining room, gestured for him to take a seat at the table, apologized that she couldn’t keep him company, and offered him something to drink. Gérard asked for a glass of water.
Alone in the kitchen, she tried to gather her thoughts and figure out how to deal with this cataclysm. First things first. She thought she’d managed to pull off the ghastly few minutes of conversation with the attorney, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to control her nerves if she and Sylvain weren’t prepared. Buying time had to be her priority now. They would have to go back over the scenario they had come up with eight years earlier, just after the “events.”
But first she had to warn Sylvain.
Where was her phone? Time seemed to expand as she desperately scoured her memory: where had she seen it last? In her purse. Where was her purse? Her ability to concentrate seemed to be running out like sand through an hourglass. She usually left it in the entryway; she looked through the doorway from the kitchen and there it was, beneath the coatrack. She went to get it, but rather than taking the purse with her into the kitchen she stuck her hand inside to find what she was looking for. She felt its cold, hard form and drew it out.
She tiptoed back into the kitchen like a thief and ran straight into the attorney. She let out a shrill little cry and hurriedly pushed the phone into the sleeve of her sweater.
“Did I scare you?” Gérard said, overplaying his concern. Tiphaine looked daggers at him: he was clearly playing mind games with her and taking great pleasure from it.
“You took me by surprise. I didn’t realize you were in here.”
“I was wondering if Milo Brunelle is home.”
Tiphaine looked at him cagily.
“No, he’s not back yet.”
“That’s a shame.”
A pregnant silence hung over them for a few moments, which the attorney eventually broke. “May I use the bathroom?” he asked, with a polite smile.
“It’s upstairs. Facing you when you get to the top of the stairs.”
He nodded his head in thanks and went up the stairs. Tiphaine shut the door of the kitchen and pulled out her phone to call Sylvain, praying he’d answer quickly. She cursed as it went to voice mail.
“Sylvain, it’s me!” she whispered into the phone, not even trying to hide the panic in her voice. “There’s trouble here. Don’t come home, some attorney’s showed up to talk to you. Stay at the office till you hear from me. I don’t know what he wants, but you mustn’t come home. I’ll call you when he’s gone.”
She heard Gérard coming down the stairs and slipped the phone into her pocket. As he reappeared in the kitchen, she heard the sound of a key in the lock.
She held her breath.
