Chương 10
Chloé pointed at the cut-off sign.
“That says Saint something.”
“Half the hospitals in France say Saint something.”
“I know.”
“We can send it to Samuel.”
“He’ll recognize the logo?”
“He can search.”
I sat at the kitchen table and looked at the image until my eyes hurt.
Henri’s face was turned toward Maxime.
He was speaking.
Maxime was not looking at him.
He was looking toward the closed door numbered 312.
Whoever had taken the photograph had been several meters away.
The angle suggested a corridor intersection.
Not hidden exactly.
But not posed.
“Who sent this?” I asked.
Claire shook her head.
“Unknown number.”
“Could it be Renaud?”
“Possible.”
“Vallon?”
“Possible.”
“Luc?”
“Possible.”
“That word is beginning to annoy me.”
“It is doing important work tonight.”
Chloé sat down across from me.
“What if Room 312 was Luc’s room?”
I looked at her.
The thought had already occurred to me.
“If it was, why would Henri and Maxime be there the morning after the accident?”
“To see him.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Henri told me he had spent that morning with the insurer.”
Claire looked at me.
“Did he?”
“That is what he said.”
“Can you prove it?”
“No.”
“Then don’t build on it.”
I pressed my palms together.
Chloé watched me.
“You really didn’t know?”
“No.”
She nodded slowly.
The question had not been accusatory.
That made it worse.
A buzz came from Claire’s phone.
Samuel.
She answered.
“I sent you the image.”
“I’m looking at it.”
His voice sounded more awake now.
“Do you know the logo?”
“Give me a minute.”
We heard keyboard tapping.
Chloé folded her arms on the table and rested her forehead against them.
I stared at the coffee rings on the wood.
Henri used to complain when I left cups without coasters.
I wondered how many lies he had told me while protecting furniture from moisture.
“Got it,” Samuel said.
Claire straightened.
“Where?”
“Clinique Saint-Rémy, just outside Lyon.”
My pulse changed.
“Still operating?”
“No.”
“When did it close?”
“2021.”
“Why?”
“Financial restructuring.”
“Can we get records?”
“Maybe, depending on what survives and what legal basis exists.”
“Who owned it?”
There was another pause.
“I’m checking.”
Claire glanced at me.
“Samuel?”
“I found an old corporate registry entry.”
“What?”
“Minority investor through a holding company.”
“Whose?”
“HB Conseil.”
Chloé lifted her head.
I stood without meaning to.
“Henri Vallon?”
“Not confirmed.”
“But connected.”
“Yes.”
“Who was in Room 312?”
“I can’t tell from public records.”
“Can you find admission logs?”
“Not legally at this hour.”
I almost told him I did not care.
Then I looked at Claire.
She shook her head before I spoke.
“Fine.”
I sat again.
“Find what you can.”
“I’m also checking Luc Garnier’s medical history through available court filings.”
“Court filings?”
“He sued an insurer after the accident.”
Claire’s expression sharpened.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I until now.”
“Which insurer?”
Samuel named it.
I recognized the company.
Belmont had used them for years.
“What happened to the case?”
“Dismissed.”
“Why?”
“Settlement?”
“No.”
Samuel sounded puzzled.
“It appears he withdrew the claim.”
“When?”
“Three months after the accident.”
“How much was he paid?”
“I don’t see a settlement disclosed.”
“Then why withdraw?”
“Don’t know.”
Claire started writing again.
“Send the docket.”
The line went quiet for a moment.
Then Samuel said, “There’s something else.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“Luc’s original attorney died in 2022.”
“That is not necessarily relevant.”
“No, but his replacement attorney filed a motion years later in an unrelated matter mentioning missing medical documentation from Saint-Rémy.”
Claire stopped writing.
“What kind of documentation?”
“Neurological evaluation.”
My skin prickled.
“For Luc?”
“Name redacted in the public copy.”
“So maybe not.”
“Maybe.”
I closed my eyes.
Possible.
Maybe.
Perhaps.
The night had become a room full of fog and paperwork.
“Send everything,” Claire said.
Samuel disconnected.
Chloé stood.
“I need air.”
“You can open the balcony door,” I said.
She gave me a look.
“I wasn’t planning to flee.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You looked like you were thinking it.”
“I think many unpleasant things.”
She walked toward the living room.
Claire waited until she was gone.
“You need sleep.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“You are my lawyer, not my mother.”
“Your mother might have better luck.”
“She’s been dead for thirty years.”
Claire sighed.
“Then I have no competition.”
I almost smiled.
The doorbell rang.
All humor disappeared.
Claire moved first.
“Stay here.”
“I hate when you say that in my house.”
She ignored me.
A uniformed officer stood outside with another woman in plain clothes.
They collected my phone, documented the unknown message, and asked me three times whether I had responded.
I had not.
The plainclothes officer introduced herself as Lieutenant Morel.
She was in her forties, compact, tired-looking, and unimpressed by wealth.
I liked her immediately.
“Madame Belmont, I need to be clear.”
“Please.”
“Your son is being questioned in relation to financial allegations.”
“Yes.”
“The older accident matter is separate.”
“For now.”
“For now.”
She glanced toward the living room where Chloé stood barefoot beside the balcony door.
“And the threat against Monsieur Vasseur is separate again.”
“Connected doesn’t mean merged.”
Morel looked at me.
“Exactly.”
“Claire has been training me.”
“I can tell.”
Claire did not smile.
Morel continued.
“We have asked Lyon authorities to conduct a welfare check on Monsieur Garnier.”
My stomach tightened.
“Has anyone reached him?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“It is nearly two in the morning.”
“He could be in danger.”
“He could also be asleep.”
The normality of the answer irritated me.
Then I forced myself to accept it.
Police did not become omniscient because my family had collapsed.
“Can you identify Room 312?”
“We can request records.”
“How long?”
“I won’t guess.”
“Can you tell whether Luc was there?”
“Not yet.”
“Renaud?”
“Possibly, but we have no indication he was hospitalized there in 2019.”
“Henri Vallon?”
Morel looked at Claire.
“You’ve moved quickly.”
May you like
“We had insomnia.”
Morel returned her attention to me.
