Chương 13
The sentence hurt more than it should have.
Perhaps because he had earned the right to say it.
“Did he mention Vallon?”
“I’m not discussing his statement.”
“Did he mention my husband?”
“I’m not discussing his statement.”
“Did he say who was driving?”
Morel paused.
That pause answered too much.
Claire looked at me sharply.
“Lieutenant?”
“I cannot disclose the substance of an ongoing interview.”
“He knows.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Madame Belmont, do not contact him.”
I closed my eyes.
“Understood.”
“If that changes, we will tell you.”
The call ended.
Chloé sat across from me again.
“So Luc knows.”
“Probably,” Claire said.
“Why would he keep quiet?”
“Money.”
I said it automatically.
Then immediately hated myself for it.
Claire shook her head.
“We don’t know that.”
“He withdrew the lawsuit.”
“That proves only that he withdrew it.”
“He could have been paid privately.”
“He could have been threatened.”
Chloé added, “Or he could have been protecting someone.”
We both looked at her.
She frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“No, you looked at me.”
“You are right.”
She seemed more surprised by that than she should have been.
Claire opened the archived reimbursement file again.
“There may be another way.”
“What?”
“The room records.”
“You said we don’t have them.”
“We don’t.”
“Then how?”
“Internal billing references.”
She enlarged a line of numbers.
“Saint-Rémy billed Belmont for three nights under an executive-family code.”
“Yes.”
“But they also billed a private nursing supplement.”
“For Maxime?”
“Possibly.”
“There it is again.”
Claire ignored me.
“The supplement has a service reference.”
“So?”
“So hospitals and clinics often use different internal references for rooms, physicians, and nursing services.”
“Can you match it?”
“Not directly.”
She typed.
“But there are archived invoices from other Belmont employees who used Saint-Rémy.”
I leaned closer.
Chloé came around the table.
For the next twenty minutes, we did something absurdly mundane.
We compared old expense claims.
No one shouted.
No one cried.
Claire opened spreadsheet after spreadsheet while I recognized former executives by names I had not thought about in years.
A knee replacement.
A back surgery.
A cardiac rehabilitation stay.
The ordinary deterioration of bodies, itemized and reimbursed.
Finally, Claire stopped.
“Here.”
She placed two invoices side by side.
The service reference on Maxime’s record matched a neurological observation unit.
Room numbers were embedded in a separate field.
“312,” Chloé whispered.
Claire nodded.
“He was definitely in that room.”
I stared at the screen.
“So the photograph was taken outside his room.”
“Yes.”
“Not Luc’s.”
“Correct.”
The message had been designed to make me assume otherwise.
Ask your husband what happened in Room 312.
The question had not been about whom Henri visited.
It had been about what happened to Maxime inside.
“What was done to him?” I asked.
Claire did not answer.
None of us had enough evidence.
Then Chloé said, “Could he have been drugged?”
Claire looked at her.
“Before the accident?”
“Yes.”
“Possible.”
I almost laughed at the word.
This time I did not.
“Maxime had been drinking,” I said.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said his shirt smelled like brandy.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t tell us how much he drank.”
“He admitted he had been drinking.”
“According to whom?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
According to Maxime.
But when?
Not at four in the morning.
That memory had softened over the years until I had treated it like fact.
Henri had told me Maxime was drunk.
Later, Maxime had said he should not have been driving.
Those were not the same thing.
I felt suddenly cold.
“What if he was told he had been drinking?”
Claire looked up.
“By Henri?”
“By everyone.”
Chloé frowned.
“Maxime knows whether he drinks.”
“Not if he couldn’t remember the evening.”
I stood and began pacing.
“He wakes in a clinic with a head injury or neurological episode.”
“Possible.”
“He is told he drove drunk and hit someone.”
“Possible.”
“He is told Renaud has taken responsibility.”
“Yes.”
“And my husband tells him to keep quiet because everything has been handled.”
Claire watched me carefully.
“That is a theory.”
“I know.”
“Do not fall in love with it.”
“I’m not.”
But some part of me already had.
Not because it absolved Maxime.
Because it absolved me.
If he had not been driving, then perhaps the worst thing I had done seven years ago was not protecting a guilty son.
Perhaps it had been failing to protect a frightened one.
That possibility was almost unbearable in its seduction.
Claire saw it.
“Marianne.”
“I know.”
“No, listen.”
She closed the tablet.
“You cannot use this to erase what Maxime has done since.”
“I’m not.”
“You are starting to.”
Her bluntness angered me.
“Do not tell me what I’m doing.”
“I am telling you what I can see.”
“He may have been manipulated.”
“Yes.”
“He may have spent seven years believing he crippled a man.”
“Yes.”
“That matters.”
“It matters enormously.”
“Then stop talking as though it doesn’t.”
“I’m not.”
Claire stood.
“I’m telling you that suffering does not forge signatures by itself.”
The words struck cleanly.
Chloé looked away.
I sat down again.
My anger drained almost as quickly as it came.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
“That was unnecessary.”
“It was a little necessary.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Not professionally.”
Chloé gave a tired laugh.
The sound felt strangely normal.
Then Claire’s phone buzzed.
She read the message.
Her face changed.
“What?”
“Morel.”
She turned the screen toward us.
The message was brief.
Luc Garnier had agreed to speak with me.
Not tonight.
At eleven the next morning.
At a location chosen by police.
There was one condition.
“He wants Maxime there,” Claire said.
Chloé stared at her.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Maxime even free?”
Claire read the next message.
“He’s being released pending further investigation.”
My stomach dropped.
“So he can come?”
“If he agrees.”
“Will he?”
May you like
Nobody answered.
Then my borrowed silence was broken by Chloé’s phone vibrating on the table.
