Chương 4
The pieces did not prove everything.
They proved enough to make the story Maxime had told us impossible.
“You asked Renaud to meet you at the property before the police arrived,” I said.
Maxime’s lips parted.
“You told him you had been drinking.”
Chloé closed her eyes.
“You told him you would lose your position at Belmont if the police tested you.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“You offered him money.”
“He was already going to take responsibility.”
“Why?”
“Because he was driving.”
“Then why would you pay the person who had supposedly wrecked your car and injured a man?”
Maxime slapped the table.
Glasses shook.
Élodie flinched.
“Because Dad wanted it over.”
I stared at him.
There it was.
Not denial.
Not really.
Just the old family instinct to drag Henri back into the room and place the blame beside his empty chair.
“My husband made mistakes,” I said.
“Do not put yours in his coffin.”
Maxime’s face twisted.
“You think you were innocent?”
I felt Claire glance at me.
“No.”
The answer startled him.
“I was not innocent.”
“You knew.”
“I knew you had been at the property.”
“You knew I had been drinking.”
“I suspected it.”
“And you let Dad handle everything.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t sit there pretending you’re better than me.”
I heard Élodie inhale.
Chloé stared at me now.
The officer by the door looked away, granting me a small privacy that did not actually exist.
Maxime had finally found a weapon that belonged to him.
The truth.
He had been twenty-eight.
I had been sixty-three.
I had seen my son trembling in our kitchen while Henri made calls from the study.
I had seen a blood test kit on the counter that Maxime claimed had come from the hospital after he cut his hand.
I had not asked why it was unopened.
I had not asked why his shirt smelled like brandy.
I had accepted the version of events that allowed me to sleep.
For seven years, I had called that love.
It had another name too.
Cowardice.
“I should have gone to the police,” I said.
Maxime’s anger faltered.
“I should have asked what happened before your father started fixing things.”
He stared at me.
“I should have found Luc Garnier and spoken to him myself.”
“You never did.”
“No.”
“So this is what, guilt?”
“Partly.”
He laughed without humor.
“You get to confess now and feel clean?”
“No.”
That answer came easily.
I had not felt clean since opening Claire’s folder.
“I get to stop making you dirtier.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You think this is about me?”
“It is tonight.”
“No.”
He pointed at the folder.
“This is about the company.”
Claire moved slightly, but I lifted a hand.
Maxime had something else to say.
I could see it.
“You’re terrified I’ll take Belmont away from you,” he continued.
“You’ve been terrified since Dad died.”
“I still control Belmont.”
“For now.”
Chloé looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
Maxime ignored her.
“You never wanted me to have it.”
“I wanted you to earn responsibility before inheriting it.”
“I worked there for fifteen years.”
“You arrived late to board meetings and charged ski trips to the company.”
“I brought in projects.”
“You brought in people who liked being entertained.”
“I made relationships.”
“You made expenses.”
His mouth tightened.
That exchange was older than the accident.
Older than Chloé.
Older than the first forged signature.
I had spent years telling myself Maxime would mature if I gave him enough room.
Henri had spent years telling me I would lose him if I pushed too hard.
Between us, we had created an adult man who experienced boundaries as betrayal.
Maxime leaned forward.
“You were going to sell.”
The room seemed to shrink around the sentence.
Claire’s head turned toward me.
I had told only two people.
“You went through my files,” I said.
“You were going to sell part of Belmont.”
“I was considering it.”
“To strangers.”
“To an investment group.”
“You were cutting me out.”
“I was trying to protect the employees and properties from a succession crisis.”
“I’m the succession.”
“That assumption is the problem.”
His face flushed again.
For the first time, I understood the urgency behind the forged documents.
It was not simply greed.
He had discovered that I was considering restructuring the company in a way that would leave him wealthy but without control.
He had not been stealing because he believed I was dying.
He had been stealing because he feared I might live long enough to choose someone else.
Chloé looked between us.
“You said she had already agreed to transfer voting control.”
Maxime froze.
Claire reached for a pen.
“Chloé,” she said, “when did he tell you that?”
Maxime turned sharply.
“Don’t answer her.”
Chloé stared at him.
“Last winter.”
“Chloé.”
“He said Marianne had signed.”
“Stop talking.”
“He showed me papers.”
Maxime shoved back his chair.
The officer moved immediately.
This time Maxime did not argue when a hand was placed against his shoulder.
Chloé’s voice shook.
“You told me she wanted us to take over.”
“I said stop.”
“You told me she was forgetting things because that would make the transfer easier to explain.”
No one moved.
Even Maxime seemed to stop breathing.
Claire looked at me.
I did not look back.
There are moments when a sentence arrives before you understand that it has changed your life.
I had suspected fraud.
I had suspected theft.
I had even suspected that Maxime intended to challenge my competence if I resisted him.
But hearing that my small lapses had not merely been noticed but cataloged for use against me produced a different kind of wound.
Maxime had watched me search for my glasses and seen evidence.
He had watched me forget names and seen leverage.
He had turned ordinary aging into a case file.
Chloé began crying quietly.
May you like
Not dramatically.
She simply wiped beneath one eye, looked at the moisture on her fingertip, and seemed annoyed by it.
