“I’ll see you at eight thirty.”
Another brief silence.
“Great. See you then.” Tiphaine ended the call with a satisfied smile and looked at her watch. It was a quarter to eight.
She put her phone in her pocket, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard beneath the sink where she stored her cleaning products, and pulled out a plastic bag hidden behind a bottle of detergent that held a long, thin object, which she removed carefully and put on the kitchen table. It was Nora’s knife. The one Tiphaine had picked out from the others in the drawer in her neighbor’s kitchen. She picked up a knife sharpener and carefully moved the already honed blade back and forth on the hard, rough surface. She felt the blade several times, stroking it carefully with the tip of her thumb. When she was satisfied with the result she carefully laid it back on the table.
That done, she walked through the dining room and opened the door onto the deck, then went upstairs to put on her pajamas. Her footsteps echoed through the house like a heart beating out the ineluctable rhythm of fate. She put her phone on her bedside table, went to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth, then climbed into bed. She felt time dripping, drop by drop, into the well of memory, onto each stone, each level, tears splashing on each floor of her life, flooding it with images long banished from her mind. She closed her eyes and immersed herself entirely in the warm waters of memory.
At 8:40, the doorbell rang.
Tiphaine jerked awake as if being roused from a bad dream. She was bathed in sweat. She sat up in bed, heart pounding.
Back to reality...
The next step.
She picked up her phone and dialed the police. Before it had even finished the first ring, Didier Parmentier, the duty officer, picked up.
“You’ve reached the police. How may I help?”
Chapter 54
Tiphaine opened the door to find Nora standing on the front step in a wool jacket, her arms crossed and her eyes dark. If she was surprised to see Tiphaine in pajamas, she didn’t show it—that was the least of her worries. She nodded a brief greeting and came inside. Tiphaine stepped back to let her pass and closed the door.
Inside the entryway, Nora turned to Tiphaine to ask her the one thing she was desperate to know. “What are you planning to do with Gérard’s file?” she said, unable to conceal her gnawing anxiety. As far as Tiphaine was concerned, the case was closed, and she had no desire for it to be reopened. It was a detail that had no part to play in the next steps of her revenge. But Nora’s concern amused her.
“What was it doing in your house?” she said with a sardonic smile.
“It’s not the original file,” Nora lied with aplomb. “It’s a copy. One of several, as far as I know. Gérard came by to give it to me before he saw you. Just in case.”
“Is that so!” Tiphaine laughed mockingly. She didn’t believe a word of it. “So did Gérard always keep multiple copies of his files?”
“Of course,” said Nora.
“But no one knows where Gérard is.”
“Maybe so. But his secretary is at the office. And she knows all about his cases.”
If the situation hadn’t been so critical, Tiphaine would have burst out laughing out of pity for Nora. But even in the face of such naïveté she felt hollow, ravaged by the emptiness that had swallowed up the very last crumbs of forgotten emotion. Her heart was beating abnormally slowly. As if, with each beat, it was hesitating to generate the next. As if it were going to come slowly to a stop. Emotional torpor. Sensory lethargy.
Tiphaine shook herself. There wasn’t much time, she’d already lost precious seconds, and the police would be there any minute.
“Shall we go into the kitchen?” she suggested, cutting short the pointless debate. Walking ahead of her neighbor, she made her way down the corridor. Nora followed, feeling uncomfortable: Tiphaine didn’t seem convinced by her story of multiple copies of the documents.
Tiphaine walked to the kitchen table, on which sat Nora’s knife, gleaming and sharp. She stopped and turned to her neighbor, who took a couple of seconds to notice the knife, then frowned when she recognized it as hers, and looked at Tiphaine, confused.
“That’s my knife.”
“I borrowed it from you the other day when I was babysitting Nassim. I’ve been meaning to give it back to you.”
She sounded slightly bored, as if she were reciting a text she’d learned by heart. By heart but without soul. She felt like she no longer had a heart or a soul. The two women stood on either side of the knife. Tiphaine didn’t take her eyes off it. There was no menace in her eyes, just a faint dislike. She seemed bloodless, as if she had been emptied, almost absent, already gone.
“Here you go, take it,” she said, pushing the knife toward Nora.
Nora felt the grip of fear tightening. She stepped back, drawing a grimace from Tiphaine, a baleful smile, a grin that was half absurd, half comical. As Nora watched her with growing distrust, Tiphaine stepped back to reassure her neighbor about her intentions.
“Take it, for heaven’s sake!” she said angrily. “We’re not going to spend the evening staring at a knife. I’m just giving it back to you.”
