Chương 10
Valmont Asset Services was printed across the top.
It was not a seizure notice.
It was a payment confirmation.
Four thousand five hundred euros.
Paid by bank transfer.
Account holder.
Margaux Vance.
Payment reference.
Temporary forbearance.
I looked at the date.
Two months earlier.
"She paid them."
Lucie nodded.
"With my money."
"Maybe."
"Henri said the amount matches."
"Close enough to investigate."
I looked at her.
She had corrected me gently.
I deserved that.
Arthur opened his eyes.
I held up the letter.
"Did Margaux tell you I was paying this?"
He shook his head.
"Did you know she was getting money from me?"
He nodded.
That surprised me.
"How?"
He pointed toward Lucie.
She looked uncomfortable.
"I told him."
"When?"
"After the third month."
"Why?"
"Because he thought I was paying for everything."
I looked around the room.
"How were you paying for everything?"
She did not answer.
"Lucie."
"Don't."
"With what money?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"That is not the same thing."
Arthur tapped the bed frame.
Lucie ignored him.
I looked at the collection sacks near the wall.
Then the pharmacy receipts.
Then her torn coat.
A slow, ugly understanding formed.
"You were collecting bottles for his medication."
"Not just his."
"What does that mean?"
She immediately looked away.
I noticed again how carefully she had been moving.
The limp.
The pharmacy bag.
The tiredness.
"Are you sick?"
"No."
It came too fast.
"Lucie."
"I'm fine."
"You are limping."
"I fell."
"When?"
"A few weeks ago."
"Where?"
"On the stairs."
"There are no stairs here."
"Before we moved here."
Arthur made a low sound.
Lucie closed her eyes.
"Arthur."
He pointed at her leg.
"What happened?"
She glared at him.
He glared back.
The familiarity of the exchange made me feel like an intruder in my own father's life.
"What happened?" I asked again.
Lucie sat down.
"I fractured my ankle."
"You fractured your ankle and you're walking around collecting bottles?"
"It's healing."
"Did you see a doctor?"
"Yes."
"Did they tell you to walk on it?"
"They told me many things."
I stared at her.
"You didn't do the follow-up."
Silence.
"Why?"
She looked toward Arthur.
I understood.
"No."
"Alexandre."
"No."
"It was either the rehabilitation transport or my appointment."
"You chose his."
"He needed it more."
"You could have called me."
Her face hardened.
"Stop saying that."
"Why?"
"Because every time you say it, you pretend the last three years didn't happen."
I opened my mouth.
She stood.
"You made sure I had no reason to believe you would help."
"I would have helped Dad."
"Exactly."
The word came quietly.
Not me.
She did not have to say it.
My father closed his eyes again.
The shame came in a different form this time.
Not sharp.
Heavy.
I looked at Lucie's coat.
At the tear in the sleeve.
At the swelling still visible above one worn boot.
"How much did you spend on his care?"
"I don't know."
"You know."
"No."
"Lucie."
She looked at me.
"I stopped counting because counting made me angry."
That was the most honest thing she had said to me.
I sat down at the table.
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Then my phone buzzed.
A photograph from Margaux.
Dad appeared in a wheelchair beneath flowering trees.
He was smiling.
Except now I could see the details.
His hair was darker.
His face fuller.
The jacket he wore had been donated years ago.
The photo was old.
Beneath it, Margaux had written.
He had a better afternoon.
Thought you'd want to see.
I handed the phone to Lucie.
She studied the image.
"That's from before the stroke."
"I know."
"How?"
I pointed at the lower corner.
A blurred date was printed on a visitor badge attached to his jacket.
April.
Three years earlier.
Lucie's eyes narrowed.
"She sent this today?"
"Just now."
My father reached for the phone.
I did not let him take it.
"Not this one."
He frowned.
"I mean it."
He looked insulted.
"She is using you to keep me calm."
Dad's expression changed.
I put the phone facedown.
"I am not letting her do that anymore."
Lucie leaned against the table.
"So what are you going to do?"
"Nothing she can see."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It sounds patient."
"Those are not the same thing."
"I know."
I stood.
"Henri is coming later."
"For Arthur?"
"To get authorization for the loan records."
Lucie nodded slowly.
"And Claire is tracing the old company payments."
"You trust Claire?"
"Yes."
She raised an eyebrow.
I almost laughed.
"Fine."
"I trust her provisionally."
"Better."
My phone vibrated again.
This time it was an email.
Sender.
Résidence des Aubes Billing.
Subject.
Arthur Vance Monthly Care Invoice.
For half a second, relief moved through me.
Then I opened the attachment.
The invoice looked perfect.
Logo.
Address.
Tax information.
Room number.
Service breakdown.
Physiotherapy.
Neurological monitoring.
Private accommodation.
Forty-seven hundred euros.
I showed Lucie.
She stared at it.
"That looks real."
"Yes."
I called the residence.
The receptionist transferred me to administration.
A man named Jérôme answered.
I gave him the invoice number.
Silence.
Then keyboard clicks.
"Could you repeat that?"
I did.
More clicking.
"I'm sorry, Monsieur Vance, but that invoice number belongs to another resident."
I looked at Lucie.
"Can you tell me the name?"
"No."
"Does it belong to Arthur Vance?"
"No."
The room seemed colder.
"Has anyone from your residence emailed me today?"
"Not according to our system."
I thanked him and ended the call.
Lucie looked at the screen.
"She forged it fast."
"Too fast."
"What do you mean?"
"This wasn't made today."
I enlarged the PDF properties.
Creation date.
Four months earlier.
Modified today.
Lucie leaned closer.
"She already had a template."
"Yes."
My father's eyes opened.
He watched us.
I looked at the fake invoice.
Then at the old photo.
Then at the Valmont payment confirmation.
May you like
For three years, Margaux had survived on one assumption.
That I would never verify anything involving someone I loved.
