Chương 6
“You forgot what?”
“That it’s actually your birthday.”
It was the first absurd thing anyone had said in an hour.
I laughed.
Chloé did too.
Then she covered her face and began crying properly.
Claire looked at both of us with the expression of a woman who had become an attorney specifically to avoid family therapy.
I stood.
“Come with me.”
Chloé lowered her hands.
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
Claire looked ready to object.
“I am not inviting her to move in.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I was going to say don’t discuss anything material without me.”
“That too.”
Chloé stared at me.
“You want me at your place?”
“I want you somewhere Maxime cannot reach you tonight.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me.”
The answer came too fast.
Claire heard it.
So did I.
Chloé looked away.
“He’s never hit me.”
I did not ask the obvious question.
Instead, I picked up my coat.
“Bring your phone.”
The drive to my apartment took twenty-three minutes.
Paris after midnight has a way of looking indifferent to private disasters.
People smoked outside bars.
A delivery cyclist balanced two paper bags against his chest.
A couple argued at a crosswalk, then kissed before the light changed.
Inside Claire’s car, nobody spoke for several blocks.
Chloé sat in the back seat.
I watched her reflection in the window.
She had removed her earrings and was holding them in one fist.
At a red light, Claire said, “We need to contact Luc Garnier.”
My stomach tightened.
“Tonight?”
“Not necessarily tonight.”
“But soon.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Samuel found a current address in Villeurbanne and a number that appears active.”
Chloé leaned forward.
“Does he know you’re investigating?”
“No.”
“Then Maxime may have contacted him first.”
Claire glanced at her in the mirror.
“That’s possible.”
“Maybe that’s what the call was about.”
“Also possible.”
I hated the language of possibility.
It left room for everything.
The apartment was dark when we arrived.
I had lived there for nineteen years, yet the hallway felt unfamiliar with Chloé behind me.
She had visited dozens of times for dinners and holidays, always entering as Maxime’s wife.
Tonight she entered alone.
She took off her shoes without being asked.
That small politeness annoyed me because I did not want new evidence that she contained manners.
I turned on the kitchen lights.
“You can sleep in the guest room.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“You will eventually.”
Claire placed her bag on the counter.
“I’m staying until we know what happened with the phone.”
I opened a cupboard.
“Coffee?”
Claire looked at the clock.
“No.”
“Yes,” Chloé said.
I made coffee.
It was what I did when there was nothing useful to do.
Henri used to complain that my answer to insolvency, grief, negotiations, influenza, and bad plumbing was always coffee.
He had not been wrong.
Chloé sat at the kitchen table.
Without the restaurant lighting and carefully arranged hair, she looked younger than I expected.
Not innocent.
Just tired.
“Why did you laugh?” I asked.
Claire looked up.
Chloé did not pretend not to understand.
“At the bowl?”
“Yes.”
She stared into the coffee I had placed in front of her.
“Because everyone else did.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer.”
I sat opposite her.
“Try again.”
She swallowed.
“I was nervous.”
“About what?”
“Maxime.”
I waited.
“He’d been angry all day.”
“Why?”
“Because you wouldn’t sign something last week.”
I looked toward Claire.
She reached for her notebook.
“What?”
“Some corporate paperwork.”
“Did you see it?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you what it was?”
“He said it would settle the succession issue.”
Claire’s pen stopped.
“What exactly did he say?”
Chloé closed her eyes.
“He said if Marianne signs on Friday, we’re safe.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think safe meant?”
“Financially.”
“From what?”
She gave a helpless little shrug.
“Our mortgage, taxes, everything.”
I stared at her.
“What mortgage?”
She looked at me.
“The apartment.”
“You told me it was paid for.”
“It was.”
Claire and I exchanged a look.
Chloé noticed.
“What?”
I leaned forward.
“Maxime told me eighteen months ago that you had refinanced your apartment to invest in a project.”
“We never refinanced.”
My chest tightened.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“The apartment is in both your names?”
“Yes.”
“Do you review your bank statements?”
“Some.”
“Which accounts?”
“Mine.”
“And the household?”
“Max handles those.”
Claire put down her pen.
“Chloé, I need you to listen carefully.”
Chloé sat straighter.
“Tomorrow, with your consent, we should check whether any secured borrowing exists against property you own.”
“Why?”
“Because Marianne was told one story and you were told another.”
“No.”
The word came automatically.
Then she went silent.
I saw something shift in her face.
Not belief.
Memory.
“What?”
I asked.
“Three months ago, a bank called me.”
“About?”
“They wanted confirmation of my employment.”
“Do you have a job?”
Chloé looked embarrassed.
“I do freelance interior work.”
“That wasn’t criticism.”
“I know.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I was self-employed.”
“Why were they calling?”
“They said it was routine verification.”
“For what?”
“I assumed Max had applied for a premium credit card.”
Claire sat very still.
“Did you sign anything?”
“Online.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Chloé.”
“I don’t know.”
She raised her voice.
“He sent me a link and said it was consent for a household credit check.”
I closed my eyes.
There was a point at which fraud stopped feeling like a series of crimes and began feeling like architecture.
Every room led to another.
My phone rang.
All three of us looked at it.
Samuel’s name appeared.
I answered on speaker.
“Tell me something good.”
“I can tell you something important.”
His voice was rough with fatigue.
“Police located a second phone on Maxime.”
Chloé gripped her coffee cup.
“Was it black?”
Samuel paused.
“Who’s there?”
“Chloé.”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Claire leaned closer.
“Do they have authority to examine it?”
“Not yet.”
May you like
“What else?”
“They also found a handwritten note in his wallet.”
