What had she thought?
That he wanted to scare her? Or was trying to worm his way back into her life, into the very place she’d taken refuge to get away from him?
He gripped the steering wheel even harder, trying to shake off the rage that was choking him, the bitterness, pain, anger, sorrow, and grief at losing the woman he loved, despite the scant time and attention he’d spent on her when they were together.
But no, all that was before! Before she’d left him, before she’d shattered all that they’d built together during eighteen long years.
Why wouldn’t she accept that he’d changed? And how could he communicate it without triggering a heap of accusations that would be bound to lead to another rift? Since she’d told him she was leaving, he’d sensed himself doing the exact opposite to what he needed to do to get her back: he was either clumsy or, as he’d been just now, downright insensitive; or he formulated his thoughts out loud in a way that came out sounding ambiguous. It was always when he was in the middle of saying something that he realized how it might be misconstrued. It was a bit like being under a spell. As if he’d been bewitched, like a cartoon character who suddenly loses control of what they’re doing or saying.
He didn’t recognize himself anymore.
The case of that guy who’d hanged himself had been nagging at him for days, ever since the last time he’d come to fetch the kids. It had come to him in a flash as he was waiting for them in the car. He thought he vaguely recognized the neighborhood. He had a feeling he’d been there before. And then out of the blue he remembered the strange case of the foxglove poisoning. David Brunelle. Some poor beleaguered guy overwhelmed by life. His criminal record wasn’t in his favor, but there was no evidence against him. The cops had brought him in hoping he’d crack under pressure and they’d get a confession out of him.
Gérard had gotten him out of custody in no time and dropped him back at his house. Then two days later he heard he’d committed suicide. But Nassim had just been born, and his priorities had changed. For once, work had taken a back seat.
As soon as he got home, Gérard went straight into his office and stood there perusing the shelves where he filed his archives. He found the year of the case—the year of his son’s birth—took down the corresponding file folder, and began flicking through the pages. It took him a couple of minutes to find what he was looking for: two sheets of paper, one outlining the case, the other with the suspect’s details.
28, rue Edmond-Petit.
Nora lived at number 26.
Yet another opportunity he’d missed to keep his mouth shut. And, for an attorney, that was no small matter.
Chapter 10
Turn on the computer. Google. Facebook. Four notifications, one message, no friend requests. He began with the message. Arthur. For a change.Hi Mil, lost my notes for the French assignment, LOL, can you scan them for me?Lol? What was so funny about that?
Milo turned to his notifications. Two invitations to play online games, a “like” from Arthur, and a message from Arthur. Milo clicked on it. It was a photo of a dog with a stately bearing and a haughty look named Clint Eastwoof, next to a black cat with a squashed muzzle and eyes slightly too far apart, named Samuel L. Catson. Underneath Arthur had commented:LOL. Plus they look like each other. Don’t forget the French assignment.
Milo was careful not to click “like” so as not to show he’d been on Facebook, then sighed when he realized Arthur would already know he’d read his message. He clicked “like,” then swiveled forty-five degrees on his desk chair, located his backpack on the other side of the room, and stood up to get it.
As he walked by the window, a movement in the next-door yard caught his eye. He didn’t stop moving until he was already past the window, as if the image he’d seen had only just reached his brain. Slowly he turned back to look.
His bedroom looked out onto both yards, so he had an unimpeded view of what was happening on both sides of the hedge. Inès was strolling across the grass toward a sun lounger, wearing a bikini and holding what appeared to be a BlackBerry attached to a pair of earphones whose cord reached up to her ears. She had her back to him. Instinctively, Milo went closer to the window to enjoy the view. She was very pretty, with black hair tied back in a ponytail, dark skin, long legs, and a nice ass.
Milo swallowed.
He watched her for a few seconds, and then nothing more happened—she was lying down now and not moving—so he went back to his desk, sat down, checked his Facebook page, remembered about the French assignment, and got up again to get his backpack.
Back at his computer, he thought for a moment. Then, briskly, he left the room and went down to the front door and out onto the street. He walked a few feet to the house next door, where he peered at the names on the mailbox: Nora Amrani, Inès and Nassim Depardieu.
Inès Depardieu.
He turned around and went back into the house, strode up the stairs two at a time, and sat back down at the computer. He typed Inès’s name in the Facebook search box, consulted the first four suggestions, and clicked on the second. There she was, grinning mischievously at him. He dragged the arrow to the “add friend” icon. The arrow turned into a hand. He hesitated, briefly, then clicked.
That was it. He’d cast his hook. Well, an invitation, anyway. Social formalities in the third millennium. A virtual initial contact without risk of rejection. No stammering or blushing. The only drawback was that now he had to wait.
With nothing better to do, he stood up and went back to look out the window. The girl was still lying on the sun lounger, looking at her BlackBerry. Too late, he realized she must have just received a ping alerting her to his friend request: suddenly she turned her head to his window and caught sight of him spying on her. It was too late to conceal himself; Milo could think of nothing better than to hurriedly hide behind the curtains.
What an idiot! What did he look like now? How on earth was he going to fix this? But even in his discomfiture, a thought occurred to him that made him smile. His profile picture was a drawing of the hero of Assassin’s Creed, which meant that if Inès had identified him, which she clearly had, she must know his name. And there was no way she could have known it if she hadn’t made inquiries. Which meant she must have noticed him.
Milo cowered behind the curtain, not sure what to do next. His attention was drawn by a ping indicating he had a new Facebook notification. He went over to his desk and, with a click, saw that Inès had accepted his request.
Milo smiled in delight.
A few seconds later, he received a new message. His heart began to beat a little faster. She’d clearly wasted no time in contacting him. He knew that when he read the message, she’d be notified immediately, so he forced himself to wait, so as not to betray his impatience. After ten minutes, which felt more like an hour, he opened his mailbox.
It was Arthur, reminding him about the French assignment.
