Chương 14
We all stared at it.
Maxime’s name appeared on the screen.
Chloé went pale.
Claire picked up the phone but did not answer.
It stopped.
A message arrived immediately afterward.
Chloé looked at me.
“Read it.”
Claire unlocked the screen with Chloé’s permission.
Her eyes moved across the words.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Claire turned the phone around.
Maxime had written only one sentence.
If my mother is with you, tell her Luc was never supposed to wake up remembering me.
Claire read the message twice before speaking.
“That is not a confession.”
Chloé stared at her.
“What else could it possibly be?”
“A sentence without context.”
I looked at the screen.
“Then tomorrow we get the context.”
Claire handed the phone back to Chloé.
“Do not answer.”
Chloé nodded.
For the first time that night, she did exactly what someone asked without arguing.
I slept for ninety minutes.
At seven, I woke in my clothes on top of my bedspread with one shoe still on.
For a few seconds, I had the pleasant confusion of forgetting everything.
Then I saw the paper birthday hat on my dresser.
I had brought it home without remembering doing so.
I picked it up and crushed it into the trash.
Downstairs, Chloé was making toast.
She had found one of my sweaters and looked absurdly small inside it.
“I hope you don’t mind.”
“I mind the butter.”
She glanced at the pan.
“What?”
“You’re burning it.”
She looked down and swore.
I took the pan from her.
For five minutes, we argued about toast because neither of us wanted to discuss husbands, fraud, missing memories, or damaged men.
Claire arrived at eight with Samuel.
He smelled like cinnamon.
“You still chew that gum?”
He blinked.
“You noticed?”
“I notice everything eventually.”
Samuel gave me a tired smile.
“Useful quality.”
“Not useful enough.”
He did not answer that.
At ten-thirty, Lieutenant Morel sent the address.
The meeting would take place in a municipal conference room attached to a police facility outside central Paris.
No one called it an interrogation.
No one called it mediation.
It was simply a conversation requested by a witness, with investigators present.
Maxime had agreed to attend.
That surprised me.
“What made him agree?” I asked.
Morel, when we arrived, said, “I didn’t ask.”
The conference room had cheap gray carpet and a vending machine outside that sold terrible coffee.
Luc Garnier was already seated when we entered.
I had spent seven years imagining him.
In my imagination, he had become everything at once.
Accusation.
Victim.
Consequence.
He was smaller than I expected.
Sixty-one, according to the file, though pain had added years around his mouth.
A cane rested against his chair.
His right leg was thinner than his left.
He looked at me without warmth.
“Madame Belmont.”
“Mr. Garnier.”
I wanted to say I was sorry.
The words felt too small.
So I sat.
Chloé remained outside at Morel’s request.
Claire sat beside me.
Two investigators stood near the wall.
The door opened again.
Maxime entered with an attorney I did not know.
He looked as though he had aged ten years overnight.
No expensive jacket.
No polished shoes.
No arrogance.
His eyes found mine and then moved away.
Luc watched him.
Maxime stopped walking.
“You.”
Luc’s fingers tightened around the head of his cane.
“Yes.”
Maxime sat.
His attorney leaned toward him.
“Do not speak unless we discuss it first.”
Luc gave a humorless smile.
“That advice came seven years late.”
Morel looked at Luc.
“You asked for this meeting.”
“Yes.”
“Say what you need to say.”
Luc looked at Maxime.
“Do you remember me?”
Maxime swallowed.
“No.”
“Do you remember the road?”
“Pieces.”
“What pieces?”
His attorney touched his sleeve.
Maxime ignored him.
“Trees.”
Luc waited.
“A dashboard light.”
More silence.
“A man shouting.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Luc looked at me.
“Your son was not driving.”
I felt Claire’s hand move slightly beside mine.
Maxime went completely still.
His attorney spoke first.
“We need to be careful here.”
Luc ignored him.
“I was.”
Maxime stared.
“What?”
“I was driving your car.”
Nobody in the room moved.
Even Morel’s expression changed.
Luc rubbed one thumb over the worn handle of his cane.
“You were in the passenger seat.”
Maxime’s face emptied.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You were drunk.”
Maxime flinched.
Luc continued.
“So was I.”
My stomach turned.
“How did you have his car?”
Luc looked at me.
“I didn’t.”
He turned back to Maxime.
“He gave me the keys.”
Maxime shook his head.
“I don’t know you.”
“You did that night.”
“No.”
“We met at the property bar.”
“There was no bar.”
“Staff room.”
Maxime’s attorney whispered, “Stop answering.”
Maxime raised a hand.
“Why would I give you my keys?”
Luc looked down.
“Because I said I was sober enough.”
The ugliness of that sentence made it believable.
No conspiracy.
No elegant setup.
Two men making a stupid decision.
Luc continued.
“You wanted to leave.”
Maxime’s breathing grew shallow.
“You said your father was coming in the morning and you didn’t want him to see you drunk.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded like my son.
Maxime stared at Luc.
“Then why did everyone say I was driving?”
“Because after the crash, you hit your head.”
Luc touched the side of his own face.
“You were unconscious for maybe a minute.”
“And you?”
“I panicked.”
Luc looked toward Morel.
“I had previous driving offenses.”
His mouth tightened.
“I thought I’d go to prison.”
“So you left me?”
“You were awake when I ran.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
Luc’s voice broke slightly for the first time.
“I found that out later.”
Maxime stared at the table.
“What happened next?”
Luc looked at me.
“Henri Vallon found me before police did.”
The room sharpened.
“How?” Claire asked.
Luc glanced at Morel, who nodded.
“Vallon had been at the property.”
“Why?”
“Insurance meeting the next morning.”
Luc laughed bitterly.
May you like
“Wrong place, useful profession.”
“What did he do?”
