Chương 15
"Three years ago, nobody put the pieces together."
I looked at Lucie.
That was the entire story of our marriage.
I ended the call and put the phone away.
Lucie was staring at the parking lot.
"Does this change anything?"
I asked.
She turned slowly.
"What do you mean?"
"About what happened to you."
"No."
The answer hurt because it should.
"It changes what can be proved."
She nodded toward my pocket.
"It doesn't give me three years back."
"I know."
She flinched.
I stopped myself.
"Sorry."
"For saying you know?"
"Yes."
Lucie rubbed both hands over her face.
"I'm tired."
"I can take you home."
She gave me a look.
"To the warehouse."
"That's not a home."
"It's where Arthur is."
"After the scan, I'm moving him."
"We are not doing that without the doctor."
"I'm not."
She studied me.
"Good."
A nurse came through the doors.
"Monsieur Vance?"
We both stepped forward.
"Your father is ready."
Arthur looked exhausted when they wheeled him out.
He saw us standing together and raised one eyebrow.
Lucie bent toward him.
"Don't start."
His mouth twitched.
I took hold of the wheelchair handles.
Lucie looked at me.
"I can push him."
"I know."
I waited.
She stepped aside.
That tiny permission meant more than I wanted it to.
We moved toward the exit.
Halfway down the corridor, Arthur tapped my hand.
I stopped.
He pointed toward the notebook on his lap.
I gave him the pen.
He wrote carefully.
PAUL.
"What about him?"
Arthur wrote another word.
ALIVE?
I looked at Lucie.
She looked back at me.
I had not thought about that.
Not once.
I took out my phone and searched his name.
The first results were old supplier pages.
A dissolved company notice.
A trade registry entry.
Then an obituary.
Paul Mercier.
Age forty-four.
Died two years and nine months earlier.
Lucie made a sound beside me.
I opened the notice.
No cause of death was listed.
Arthur stared at the screen.
Then he shook his head.
Again.
Harder.
"What?"
His hand fumbled for the pen.
Lucie steadied the notebook.
He wrote slowly.
NOT DEAD.
I stared at him.
"What do you mean?"
Arthur underlined the words.
Then he wrote another.
SAW.
"When?"
He struggled.
Lucie leaned closer.
"Before the stroke?"
Arthur shook his head.
"After?"
He nodded.
My skin prickled.
"Where?"
His pen moved.
MARG.
Then.
HOUSE.
Lucie looked at me.
My father had seen a legally dead man at Margaux's house.
I read the words twice before looking at my father.
"You're certain?"
Arthur nodded.
Lucie touched his shoulder.
"When did you see him?"
Arthur wrote slowly.
TWO WEEKS.
"Two weeks before your stroke?"
He shook his head.
"Two weeks after?"
Another shake.
Lucie frowned.
"Two weeks before you came to live with me?"
Arthur nodded.
That placed it roughly six weeks after the stroke.
"Where was Margaux living then?"
I already knew.
A renovated townhouse in Croix-Rousse that I had helped her buy.
Arthur wrote again.
GARAGE.
"You saw Paul in her garage?"
He nodded.
"How?"
Arthur stared at the notebook.
His hand trembled.
Lucie said, "Don't push."
I crouched beside him.
"One thing."
He looked at me.
"Did Margaux know you saw him?"
His eyes closed.
Then he nodded.
Lucie inhaled sharply.
The shape of the story shifted again.
Not because Paul was alive.
Because if Arthur had discovered that, Margaux had gained another reason to silence him.
I called Henri from the parking lot.
He told me not to go near Margaux's house.
I told him I wasn't planning to.
He said, "Good."
Then, after a pause, "I don't believe you."
He was right.
For ten minutes, I sat behind the wheel imagining every version of a confrontation.
I imagined ringing her bell.
I imagined throwing the obituary onto her kitchen table.
I imagined asking where Paul was.
I imagined watching her lie.
Then I saw Lucie reflected in the passenger window.
She had come out with Arthur's bag.
"You were going to do something stupid."
"I was considering it."
"Same thing."
I opened the trunk.
She placed the bag inside.
"Henri says not to contact her."
"Henri is earning his money."
We took Arthur back to the warehouse for one more night because Dr. Lambert wanted the transfer arranged properly the next morning.
I hated it.
Lucie hated that I hated it.
Arthur seemed mostly concerned that I had bought the wrong yogurt.
At nine, Claire called.
"We found Paul."
I stood so quickly I nearly overturned the table.
"Alive?"
"Very."
"Where?"
"Belgium."
Lucie froze beside the heater.
Claire continued.
"Antwerp, apparently."
"How?"
"He changed his surname."
"To what?"
"Mercier-Dubois."
"That barely counts."
"I know."
"What about the obituary?"
"His brother died."
I stared at the wall.
Claire said, "Same first initial, similar age, family notice was badly indexed."
"So we assumed."
"Everyone did."
"Can Henri contact him?"
"He already has."
"And?"
"Paul agreed to speak."
Lucie sat down.
"When?"
"Tomorrow morning."
The next day, Paul appeared on a video call from an office that looked aggressively ordinary.
White wall.
Metal shelf.
A dead plant in the corner.
He had aged.
His hair was thinner.
His face looked like someone had sanded away the arrogance I remembered.
When Lucie entered the room, he stopped speaking.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She sat opposite the screen.
"You should be."
Paul nodded.
No defense.
Henri asked the questions.
Paul admitted the invoice scheme.
Admitted Sorelle.
Admitted taking money.
Admitted letting Margaux use his access and contacts.
"What happened after the recording?" Henri asked.
Paul rubbed his face.
"I tried to leave."
"Did you go to Alexandre?"
"I sent the email."
"Why didn't you follow up?"
"Margaux sent me screenshots."
My stomach tightened.
"Of what?"
"Messages between Alexandre and a private investigator."
I looked at Lucie.
Paul continued.
"He was already following us."
"Because Margaux hired the investigator," Lucie said.
Paul nodded.
"I learned that later."
"What did she threaten you with?"
Henri asked.
May you like
"Everything."
Paul looked at the camera.
