“But . . . ,” Gabriel started. He did not understand. “So it was an accident?”
“Yes,” Valincourt said, not daring to believe he could escape so easily.
Gabriel shook his head, causing his curly hair to flop onto his forehead.
“So why kill the Guénans?”
Why indeed? This version was not going to be enough. He was going to have to let the truth out—just hopefully not the whole truth.
“The thing is, your half brother fell . . . he fell because I pushed him. He was blocking you from getting to safety and it was becoming dangerous. I shoved him aside and he slipped overboard. Yann Guénan saw everything, and when he arrived back in France, he tried to blackmail me.”
Guénan had seen him get rid of the boy. But he had no idea what Valincourt’s name was: he was just another passenger among hundreds of others. In the chaos that followed, the panic had concentrated the passengers into a few small groups. When the rescue operation finally began, the ferry had already keeled over, ending the lives of dozens of men and women. The boats and helicopters had a tough time evacuating the survivors, and the passengers ended up being scattered. Valincourt and his son had managed to get away and travel back to France without any further trouble.
But Valincourt was afraid there would be repercussions. He had discovered the sailor’s name and tracked him down the moment he set foot in Paris. The idea of murdering Guénan disgusted him: he would only do it if it were absolutely necessary. There was a chance that, in the mayhem of the accident, the sailor might have erased the memory. For peace of mind, Valincourt kept him under close surveillance. And when Guénan started making his rounds of the French survivors, Valincourt felt he had no other choice. If Guénan came across his face on a list, he would have been tried for infanticide and sent to jail for many years; Gabriel would have been placed in a foster home, at the mercy of God knows what kind of maniac. The idea was unacceptable—Alexandre could not have run the risk of that happening. He had analyzed the situation and waited for the opportune moment. All he needed for the rest was to keep a cool head.
“Blackmail? But . . .”
Gabriel’s train of thought was going faster and further than he would have liked. Valincourt could see it pull up at Sauzelle, an old lady, and more questions came rushing out. Without him even realizing, the boy’s feet returned to the wooden floor, pressing down to test their steadiness. He was now holding the braid of the armchair in his clenched fist. Deep down, Gabriel was craving a way out, but with a look of determination he forced himself to carry on:
“The old lady?”
“Guénan told her.”
At the time of their conversation at the commemoration, Marie Sauzelle had not made the link with the family she had met during boarding. But on seeing the photographs of Rosa and Antonio flicking past, her memories of the sailor’s tale were stirred. The thought had perplexed her, and she had innocently put the question to Valincourt.
One murder always leads to another. Valincourt looked at his son again. The boy was devastated. The son he loved so much; the son who shared Rosa’s blood. He was so young.
“I’m sorry,” Valincourt murmured.
Gabriel did not acknowledge the apology. He was close to collapse, but still he fought on:
“Guénan’s wife? Were you following me while I was on my search? Did you look at my cell phone? Did you do it to silence her? Was it my fault?”
Gabriel had all these questions, but Valincourt only gave him one answer:
“Nothing is your fault. Nothing. I did what I could, but you . . . You don’t deserve a single second of what you’re going through now. I’m sorry.”
Valincourt’s eyes were red and a few tears were starting to form. A long silence set in, and neither father nor son knew how to handle it. They stayed there like that, not moving, only half breathing. Then Gabriel stood up and shakily made his way to the door. When he opened it, he saw Manon leaning against the wall along the corridor. He walked to her slowly and fell into her arms.
Orsini was in line at the party shop. In addition to the banner, he had chosen balloons, three multicolored garlands, and several paper lanterns, two of which had a sun-and-moon pattern. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the name flashing on the screen: Chevalet, a journalist friend he had called on earlier in the investigation. Orsini sighed and brought the cell phone to his ear.
“Hi, Marcus,” came the voice down the line. “So, this story you promised me?”
Orsini thought about Valincourt’s crimes, then pictured the son, Gabriel. His own son had never had the chance to reach that age.
“Hi, Ludo. Afraid it didn’t come to anything in the end. Next time.”
He hung up. The shop owner smiled and handed him his items. Next to the counter was a stand displaying lots of pranks and practical jokes. Orsini picked out a packet of hot sweets. Those hot sweets always cracked him up.
Epilogue
The elevator stopped at the fifth floor. The doors opened with a grinding mechanical sound, and Capestan found herself looking at some legs. They turned out to belong to Orsini, who was wobbling precariously on a stepladder trying to hang the WELCOME banner above the door. He anxiously steadied himself by gripping the door frame, then turned to her:
“Good afternoon, commissaire. We’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
“Hello, Orsini. Waiting for me for what?”
Orsini was trying to insert the thumbtack with such vigor you would have thought the frame was made of reinforced concrete.
“To get ready for the housewarming.”
“The housewarming? First I’ve heard of it.”
“Ah,” Orsini said with an air of irritation, sucking his injured thumb before confessing: “Perhaps it was a surprise. I’m
