“Well, it was likeGuernicaat our place. I’d like to help my son, so I need to know what happened.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Tiphaine flashed Nora a brief, cold smile. “Could you find out, please?” she asked.
“Find out what?”
“About our children. Could you find out?”
“Find out what, for goodness’ sake?” said Nora angrily.
“Why my son spent half the night begging your daughter to leave him alone.” It was strange, but something about the way she said this gave Nora the feeling that Tiphaine was really asking Nora to leave her husband and family alone. To stick to her own problems. Get out of their lives.
“Okay,” she murmured, feeling the grip of despair, fed by her guilty conscience, tightening in the pit of her stomach.
Tiphaine’s tone softened when her neighbor assented.
“Thank you. You must understand, I’m not accusing your daughter, it’s just that Milo isn’t in great shape at the moment, and I’m worried. As any mother would be, right?”
“Of course,” Nora agreed heartily, not wanting to upset her neighbor any further.
“I must go,” said Tiphaine, getting up.
“You’re not staying for coffee?”
“I don’t have time. Milo will be back soon and I want to be there when he gets in.”
Nora didn’t insist. She saw Tiphaine out, relieved to see the back of her.
“Will you let me know if you hear anything?” asked Tiphaine as she left.
“I promise I’ll do what I can,” replied Nora with a lump in her throat, ashamed of her duplicitous pledge.
Tiphaine seemed grateful. “Thanks,” she said by way of acknowledgment.
Nora felt a stab of guilt in her belly.
Chapter 30
That Friday, Gérard Depardieu managed to free up some time to go over to the courthouse to see what he could find out about Milo Brunelle in the archives of the family court. The archives were classified in chronological order, but since he didn’t know the date, he had to use the registry’s various research tools, alphabetical and chronological almanacs, and different lists. It took him fifteen minutes to find what he was looking for.
He found out that the family court for the Brunelles had been composed of a representative of the general council, Émile Trudert, someone Gérard had never heard of whose name was put forward by the council president; and two board members of a charity that worked with families, whom he did know, having dealt with them both several times: twenty-six-year-old Judith Bertrix and fifty-five-year-old Mélinda Hernandez. Of the two, the younger was the more unyielding. There was also Madame Lenoix, Milo’s teacher at the time he’d lost his parents, who belonged to an association of caregivers for young children, a key element of the family court. And then there were two other women: Milo’s therapist, Justine Philippot, and Tiphaine Geniot, his godmother.
So Tiphaine Geniot was the boy’s godmother!
The boy’s godmother’s husband was hitting on his wife!
Depardieu’s knuckles were white from the pressure of his fingers gripping the file as he agitatedly made his way through it. There was mention of Milo’s assets, which included the house at 28, rue Edmond-Petit. Everything that had belonged to his parents was now rightfully his. Gérard assumed that it was the godmother who had made the decision that they should move in, although the idea of living in the house where his father had hanged himself and his mother had died from a barbiturate overdose did not strike him as being in the best possible taste.
He turned the page to find confirmation that the boy’s godmother, Tiphaine Geniot, was also his legal guardian, along with her partner, Sylvain Geniot. The report concluded with details about each of the committee members present: profession, marital status, and address. That was when he discovered something he hadn’t even known he was looking for. When he saw where Tiphaine Geniot had been living at the time of the events, his face froze, his body flooded with adrenaline, and he swallowed an expletive, which he eventually released, relishing the clack of the consonants.
“What the actual fucking fuck.”
Tiphaine Geniot. 26, rue Edmond-Petit.
Nora’s house.
So Tiphaine must be the neighbor whom his client had accused of murdering Ernest Wilmot, his probation officer. And she was the person David Brunelle had been afraid might hurt Milo. How on earth was it possible that the woman who, according to Brunelle, was the source of all his misfortunes and a danger to his family had gone on to be entrusted with bringing up his son?
