by Seth Patrick
One thing at a time. The doorbell rang. “Hurry,” Adèle said. “Marion is waiting.”
And, like that, Chloé was off to school and Adèle’s day was clear.
She made Simon some breakfast, then unlocked the attic door and took up the tray of food. “Simon?” she called, setting the tray down.
She felt him standing behind her. His arms went to her waist, and he pressed hard against her. Her heart was pounding; his lips were on her neck, his hands touching her, fire all over her skin.
“No, wait,” she said, turning to talk to him, but his mouth found hers and she kissed back, wanting him so badly but knowing she needed this to stop.
“Simon, no,” she said. He gripped the back of her neck with his left hand, while the right found her blouse buttons and undid them. He grasped her hips, lifted her up to sit on a box, thrusting himself at her, lost.
“Stop it,” she said desperately. “Stop it.” He wouldn’t stop.
She slapped him, hard. And again. Breathless, he backed off. He was staring at her, angry. She stared back.
He saw the tray of food. “Sorry,” he said, as if nothing had happened. He walked to the food and ripped into it as though he’d never eaten.
She dressed herself again, watching him cautiously. Deep within her was a fear she hadn’t known for years.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’d all be better off at the Helping Hand. For a while. At least until I find a job and we can afford our own place.”
She stared at him. “I’ve not made my decision yet…”
“You’re coming, Adèle,” he said. “You belong with me. You know you do.”
“And what about Chloé? This is her home, Simon. She’s happy here.”
“She knows he’s not her dad?”
“Of course,” she said. “I never lied to her. Thomas wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“Yeah,” he said, sneering. “He seems like a really sweet guy.”
“You have no idea,” she said, bottling her anger. She turned, headed for the stairs.
“Adèle, wait.” She stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said. He touched her cheek, gentle now, loving.
She felt her tears fall, torn between loving him and hating him for the way he made her feel. It had always been this way when he’d gone too far, as if he’d been the hurt one and only she could make it better. She told herself not to give in to it, that he wasn’t really sorry, but she looked into his eyes and saw.
Of course he meant it. Of course he loved her. His temper flared up now and again. But it was just a sign of his passion, of how much she meant to him.
She led him down out of the attic and showed him Chloé’s room. Showed him the pictures that Chloé spent so much of her time drawing. Then Simon led her into the bedroom she shared with Thomas. He was tender with her, gentle. She was completely lost in him, not wanting to reject him again. She was willing.
“I’m here now,” he said afterward, cradling her in his arms. “I won’t leave again.”
He held her, and she believed him. Her fears for the future, and the decisions that were coming, were pushed to the back of her mind. They lay together and watched each other in the afterglow.
And high up in the corner of the ceiling, through a small hole in the plaster, Thomas’s camera watched too.
33
Jérôme didn’t understand what was happening.
The police had already gone over his statement twice, getting more and more hostile with him as time went by and his answers remained the same.
The officers questioning him both seemed young, one particularly so. It made the distaste on their faces harder to bear somehow. The room was sparse and overly bright, hurting his eyes. He was so damn tired.
“One more time,” said the older of the two. “Lucy’s diary says you saw each other nearly every week for a year. Is this true?”
Jérôme almost felt like laughing, it was so ridiculous. How many times would he have to tell them the same thing? “I’ve already told you, yes.”
“And what did you do when you saw her?”
“We talked. That’s all we did; we talked. Last time I checked, that wasn’t illegal.” Claire would find out, he knew—find out something, at any rate. He thought of the hostile look she’d given him as the police had taken him away. He’d assumed it was a reprimand for bringing trouble to their door and risking Camille’s safety, but now he wondered if she’d heard Lucy’s name before. The police had told him about Lucy being attacked and that his name had appeared in Lucy’s diary, but there was no way he would admit to what had really gone on. Absolutely no way.
The younger officer stepped in. “You like beating up women, Monsieur Séguret?”
This was new, and the tone was much more hostile. It took Jérôme a moment to reply. “I don’t understand.”
“You heard. Answer the question.”
“I’ve never hit a woman,” said Jérôme. “I’ve never hit anyone.”
“Really?” said the older officer, pulling out a sheet of paper. “Well, it says here that a year ago you hit your daughter Léna.”
He blanched. “What? No—”
“On March the twelfth, you took her to the hospital with an injury they felt was ‘consistent with a physical assault.’ The girl stated that she’d fallen, but the doctors treating her noted a ‘high level of distress.’ They’re obliged to inform us in that kind of situation. You know, suspected child abuse?”
Oh God, he thought. Not this too. Not now. “I didn’t hit her,” he told them furiously. “She fell.”
“And how did she fall? All by herself?”
Jérôme looked away, ashamed. He’d always known this would come back to haunt him.
“Exactly,” said the young officer. “The doctors also noted that you seemed to have been drinking. Did you drive your daughter to the hospital in that state, Monsieur Séguret?”
“I don’t—”
The older officer came straight at him. “And what about with Lucy Clarsen?”
He felt battered, confused. “What are you getting at?”
“Your own statement makes you one of the last people to have seen her before she was attacked. Maybe you followed her home that night. Maybe you hit her too. Maybe you thought she was dead and got desperate. Maybe you tried to pass it off as a random attack.”
“That’s ridiculous.” The line of reasoning they were following was insane.
The young officer took his turn to throw the punches. “You’re the one who hits women. Even your own daughter. Come on. What went wrong? Lucy refused a special request? Or was she trying to get some extra money out of you—keep her quiet?”
“She’s not a prostitute.”
“Really? Then what were you doing? Isn’t it time you told us the truth, Monsieur Séguret?” The hostility seemed to drop suddenly. The policemen were both looking at him, expectant. “Tell us what you really got up to with Lucy Clarsen, however crazy it sounds.”
And Jérôme finally understood. As the police had said, Lucy kept a diary. There were others, of course. Other men she’d been seeing. Jérôme had always known as much. And by now, the police had surely talked to many of them.
Some of those men must have admitted it. The police knew what Lucy really did. And they knew how difficult it was to get the men in her diary to confess.
He thought back a year, to when Lucy had come to town. He could feel his face redden thinking about how he’d first reacted to her approach. Pride. That was it. Even though he would look at himself in the mirror and see a man who’d let himself go, see the failing hairline and the puffy, doughy skin. Lucy was young. He hadn’t asked, but he would have put her at twenty-four. Young and pretty, and coming on to a man almost twice her age who looked even older than that.
Pride.
She’d struck up so
mething of a conversation that night, talking a little every time she brought him a drink. Then she told him she was about to finish her shift and maybe he’d like to talk more, upstairs?
His face must have been comical—utter disbelief, yet egged on by that tiny piece of him that thought, Sure, why not. I’m still young, right?
Delusional. But she’d meant it, and even the most skeptical parts of his mind were soon proved wrong as she stopped outside her door and kissed him briefly.
She took him in, offered him a drink, and all he could say was, “Look. This isn’t a good idea.”
She ignored him, handed him a beer, took one for herself.
“I should go,” he said.
“Please, just relax.”
She led him to the sofa, laid him back, and unfastened his trousers. In moments she was on top of him, and he was inside her, the speed of it taking his breath away.
He just looked up at her, lost, wondering how the hell this could have happened, and in no time he came, but she kept thrusting, kept going and going. Then suddenly she stopped, her eyes closed, smiling.
And then.
She opened her eyes, looking toward the back wall with such intensity.
“What is it?” asked Jérôme.
“Camille is here,” she said.
It caught him completely off guard. “What?” But the look on Lucy’s face was compelling. He believed at once, and his certainty astonished him.
Lucy gasped. “She says she loves you. She misses you. She misses Léna too, and her mum. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
“Tell her I love her,” he said. “Tell her we all love her. We all miss her. Tell her…” And he couldn’t think what to say, what to tell his dead daughter.
Lucy closed her eyes again, bowed her head, let out a long breath. “She’s gone,” she said, and that had been the first time.
Every time since, it had been little different.
Every time since, he had felt like an old, desperate man. Even though Lucy never seemed to, he had always held himself in disgust.
“Monsieur Séguret?”
The older officer’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, back to the interview room. Jérôme looked up. Both officers were still waiting patiently, ready for him to tell them the details and admit to it, to what had started in pride and ended in disgust. Now, it only held humiliation.
“Jesus,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”
And he told them.
34
Julie had recognized the woman who’d discovered the body. It was Nathalie Payet’s cleaner, surely the source of many of the rumors her employer had taken so much pleasure in while alive.
Even after she’d fled to the safety of her apartment, Julie could easily hear the hysterical woman on the phone to the police, describing the horrific scene. It didn’t take long for the police to arrive. Julie watched through the peephole in her door as they questioned the woman in the hallway. Laure was with them, speaking with some of the other officers. She glanced over at Julie’s door, then walked toward it.
Damn.
Victor was drawing pictures on the table in the living room.
“Victor,” she said, pointing to the bathroom. “Quickly.”
Laure knocked at the door. Julie waited until Victor was out of sight and was about to open up when she realized the paper and pencils he’d been using were still visible. She hurried over and grabbed it all, shoving everything under a cushion on the sofa.
She opened the door slightly, blocking the view of the apartment with her body.
“Can I come in?” asked Laure. Julie stayed as she was, saying nothing. She sensed Laure’s frustration with her rise another notch. “You know what happened?”
“Of course.”
“Did you hear anything last night?”
“No. I was sound asleep.”
Across the hall, Julie saw the forensic officers entering the apartment. Only one question was important to her. “Was it him?”
Laure looked at her and frowned. “We don’t know. There was no sign of forced entry, no apparent struggle. Nothing seems disturbed. The similarities are superficial, so a copycat attack is a more likely explanation. It’s possible she knew her attacker. Opened the door and let them right in. But I’ll place an officer on watch anyway.”
“Don’t do it for my sake,” said Julie. Harsh, cold. She saw Laure wince.
“Julie…”
“If that’s all, don’t let me keep you,” she said.
Laure looked down for a second. “Wait—I have to ask, did you know her well?”
Julie shook her head. “Not really.”
“Did she have many visitors?”
“The woman who found the body is here from time to time. She’s a cleaner, but I think Mademoiselle Payet just liked the company. Nobody else came to see her that I know of.”
The lights in the building flickered off for a few seconds, and there was a sudden sound from the bathroom, a brief whimper. Victor, Julie realized, panicking in the dark. “Aren’t you alone?” asked Laure.
“No,” said Julie. She smiled, hoping it looked like a gloat and that Laure would take the hint, think she’d moved on, and give her privacy.
It seemed to have worked. “I’ll…I’ll leave you to it then.”
Laure was turning to leave when the lights in the building went off again. Victor opened the bathroom door and ran to Julie, crying.
Julie knelt down. “Hey,” she said, hugging him. “What’s up? What’s wrong?” He gripped her tightly, trembling. “You’re safe,” she said. “Remember?”
Laure stepped inside the doorway, looking at Victor with suspicion. “Who’s he?” she said.
Julie felt dismayed. She had no idea how she would explain it. “This is Victor.”
“He lives here?”
Julie nodded.
“Who are his parents?”
Julie was about to lie, but Laure knew her too well. She would spot it in an instant, and right now Julie desperately needed Laure’s trust. “I don’t know. Look, he was lost. It was late. He wouldn’t say where he was going, so I brought him back here.”
Laure shot a look behind her at the police across the hallway and stepped further into the apartment. She pulled the door half closed and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Are you mad? How long has it been?”
“A few days.”
“Christ, Julie. Have you even thought about his parents?”
“No one was looking for him,” she said. “I checked. Maybe I should have just left him in the street?” She glared defiantly at Laure.
“Why didn’t you bring him in?”
“I don’t trust the police,” said Julie. Another body blow for Laure to absorb.
Laure sighed but didn’t reply. She looked at Julie, then at Victor, appraising the situation. Behind her someone called her name.
Laure turned. “Yes, sir. I’m coming.”
Julie put her hand on Laure’s arm. It was the first time she’d touched her in seven years. “Please,” she said. “Please don’t take him away.”
Laure shook her head. “I don’t know, Julie,” she said. “I just don’t know.”
• • •
Laure didn’t come back again until much later, when the police had finished with Nathalie Payet’s apartment for the day. It didn’t go well.
Julie was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. She’d been on edge all day, thinking again of the bag she’d considered packing in case they needed to leave in a hurry. She wished she’d done just that.
The doorbell rang. She looked at Victor. He’d been drawing again and got up to hide. As before, he’d left all his paper and pencils out on the table, but Julie went to the door first to see who it was.
Laure.
Julie let her in. T
he agonized look on Laure’s face told Julie everything.
“I can’t let you do this,” said Laure. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“I knew I couldn’t trust you,” said Julie. Furious, she sat on the sofa and put her head in her hands.
“It’s impossible,” said Laure. “Surely you see that? We have to contact his parents. There’s no other option.”
Julie scowled at her. “You think I’m not capable of looking after him?”
Laure sighed. “You know that’s not the point, Julie. We really have no choice. Social Services will look for his parents, and in the meantime I’ll arrange for him to stay at the Helping Hand.”
Julie was too angry to reply. Then she saw what was on the table in front of her. The paper Victor had been drawing on.
“So where is he?” asked Laure.
Julie wasn’t listening. Page after page had the same image, the same rough sketch. A woman on the ground, a red pool surrounding her stomach. And cats, lapping the blood. Underneath, Victor had written two words: Be Silent.
“Julie, where is he?” said Laure again. She walked to the bathroom door and opened it. “There you are,” she said. “Come on. Pack your things. We’re going.” She looked at Julie. “Does he have any things?”
“His coat,” whispered Julie. She was staring at Victor, whose eyes didn’t leave hers. I didn’t tell you what I saw, Julie thought. So how could you know?
And she thought of the last words she’d shouted at Nathalie Payet the day before. Why don’t you just drop dead? It’d be better for everyone.
“Come on, Victor,” said Laure. “We’ll take care of you. Julie, I’ll keep you posted.”
Julie said nothing. Laure nodded to her and took Victor, who gave Julie one final glance before the door closed.
Julie sat where she was for a moment, then tore up the drawings. As she did, she wondered what the expression on Victor’s face had been when he left.
She hoped it wasn’t pride.
35
Pierre had been stocking up on fuel that morning, filling another dozen jerricans for the stores at the Helping Hand. He would feel much better once everything was in place. He was due a consignment of goods the next day. His usual supplier in Annecy had been wary of the quantities Pierre had ordered, especially of the more exotic items, but Pierre had talked him around.
