Chương 12
“What question?”
“Who hit Luc Garnier.”
I looked at her.
“And what should we have been asking?”
“Who decided Maxime had.”
The words sat between us.
I did not like them.
They offered Maxime a possibility I had stopped allowing myself to consider.
Not innocence.
Something more complicated.
Manipulation.
That possibility did not erase the forged documents, the stolen money, the attempt to undermine my competence, or the dog bowl.
It did something worse.
It separated the man he had become from the night I had used to explain him.
For years, whenever Maxime disappointed me, I had returned privately to that accident.
I had told myself guilt had hardened him.
I had told myself secrecy had made him reckless.
I had told myself one terrible night had split his life in two.
Perhaps that had been convenient for me too.
A parent can forgive almost anything if she can locate the exact moment her child supposedly broke.
“What did the doctors conclude?” I asked.
Claire scrolled through the archive.
“Not much in these copies.”
“Why not?”
“They’re reimbursement records, not a medical file.”
“Then find the medical file.”
“It may no longer exist.”
“Find out.”
Chloé stood and began pacing between the table and the stairs.
“If Maxime didn’t remember forty minutes, maybe he wasn’t driving.”
“Maybe,” Claire said.
“Stop saying maybe.”
“No.”
Chloé turned on her.
“Why?”
“Because you are trying to replace one certainty with another.”
Claire placed the tablet on the counter.
“That is how families create disasters.”
I flinched.
Claire noticed but did not apologize.
She was right.
At two-thirty in the morning, truth had become less comforting with every new piece of it.
My landline rang.
I had forgotten I still owned one.
The sound startled all three of us.
Nobody called that number except telemarketers and one elderly cousin in Rouen who distrusted mobile phones.
Claire crossed the kitchen and checked the display.
“Unknown.”
“Answer it.”
She picked up.
“Belmont residence.”
Silence.
Then a man’s voice, faint enough that I could not make out the words.
Claire’s posture changed.
“Who is this?”
Another pause.
She looked at me.
“Marianne, it’s for you.”
I took the receiver.
“Hello?”
Breathing.
Then a rough voice said, “You shouldn’t have opened the old records.”
“Who is this?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
A dry laugh.
“Henri always said that was your talent.”
“What was?”
“Knowing only what you chose to know.”
My fingers tightened around the receiver.
“Vallon.”
Silence answered first.
Then, “It’s been a long time.”
Chloé covered her mouth.
Claire immediately began writing.
“Where are you?”
“Not where they’re looking.”
“You threatened Renaud.”
“No.”
“He received a photograph of his sister’s house.”
“Renaud has spent seven years mistaking fear for importance.”
“Did you send it?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“I called because you need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Digging.”
“I have never responded well to that instruction.”
“I remember.”
His voice was older than I remembered, but the rhythm was familiar now.
Henri Vallon had always spoken slowly, as though other people were wasting time by making him finish sentences.
“Why was Maxime in Saint-Rémy?” I asked.
The breathing on the line changed.
“That should have stayed buried.”
“Why?”
“Because your husband asked me to bury it.”
“My husband is dead.”
“Yes.”
“And you are using him as cover.”
“I kept a promise.”
“To whom?”
“To Henri.”
“Which one?”
For the first time, Vallon hesitated.
Claire’s pen stopped.
I felt something move through the room.
“Interesting question,” he said.
“Answer it.”
“Your husband.”
“Then why did you sign Maxime’s admission papers?”
“I didn’t.”
“I have the initials.”
“Initials are not a signature.”
“You arranged payment to Renaud.”
“No.”
“You were a director at the insurer connected to the clinic.”
“No.”
“Your firm worked with them.”
“That is different.”
“You knew Maxime had memory loss.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Chloé made a small sound.
I gripped the receiver harder.
“Did Maxime hit Luc?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer was so unexpected that I nearly dropped the phone.
Claire leaned toward me.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Vallon heard her.
“Is Dumas there?”
“Yes.”
“Of course she is.”
Claire spoke toward the receiver.
“Where are you, Monsieur Vallon?”
“Not your concern.”
“It will be.”
“You lawyers are all very optimistic.”
I cut across them.
“If you didn’t know whether Maxime was driving, why did Renaud take responsibility?”
Vallon went quiet.
“Answer me.”
“Because someone had to.”
My stomach turned.
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are getting tonight.”
“Who was driving?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“Was Luc hit by Maxime’s car?”
“Yes.”
“Was Maxime in the car?”
“Yes.”
“Who else was there?”
Silence.
I looked at Claire.
She circled something on her paper.
Then Vallon spoke.
“Ask Luc.”
The line went dead.
I kept the receiver against my ear for another second.
Then two.
Claire took it from me.
“He called because he wanted to scare you.”
“He failed.”
“No.”
She looked directly at me.
“He called because something in the records scares him.”
Chloé came closer.
“Ask Luc.”
“Yes.”
“Why would he say that?”
“Because Luc knows something.”
“Or because Vallon wants us to think he does.”
Claire picked up her mobile.
“I’m calling Morel.”
This time, Lieutenant Morel answered on the third ring.
Claire gave her a precise account of the call.
Morel asked whether Vallon had made a direct threat.
“No.”
“Did he acknowledge sending the message to Vasseur?”
“No.”
“Did he admit involvement in the 2019 concealment?”
“Not explicitly.”
“Then preserve the landline records and do not engage if he calls again.”
I leaned toward the phone.
“Have you reached Luc?”
Morel exhaled.
“Madame Belmont.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
Chloé stared at me.
“Is he safe?”
“He is alive.”
The relief came fast and ugly.
My eyes burned.
“Can I speak to him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he declined.”
I sat again.
“Did you tell him why?”
“Yes.”
May you like
“What did he say?”
“That he has spent seven years regretting every conversation involving the Belmont family.”
