Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
“YOUR MOTHER KNEW HER DAUGHTER WAS ALIVE BEFORE SHE DIED.”
Victor Laurent spoke the words quietly.
Léa sat across from him in a small café near the Seine, gripping Elise's letter with both hands.
Camille sat beside her.
The former investigator was in his late fifties, with graying hair, tired eyes, and the calm manner of someone who had spent decades listening to people describe the worst moments of their lives.
He read the letter twice.
Then he placed it carefully on the table.
“May I ask you something, Léa?”
She nodded.
“Did your mother ever tell you why she went to Rue des Martyrs on the night she died?”
“No. She said she had an appointment with someone who could help her resolve an old problem.”
“Did she seem frightened?”
Léa looked down.
“Yes.”
The admission hurt.
She remembered her mother standing by the apartment door, searching through her handbag for her keys.
Elise had been wearing her dark blue coat.
She had turned back unexpectedly and hugged Léa.
Not a casual embrace.
A long, desperate hug.
Léa had laughed.
“Mom, what's gotten into you?”
Elise had smiled sadly.
“Nothing, sweetheart. I just love you.”
That was the last time Léa had seen her alive.
Now she wondered whether Elise had known she might not return.
Victor noticed her tears.
“We can take a moment.”
“No,” Léa whispered. “Please continue.”
He nodded.
“The police report lists the time of death as approximately 10:30 p.m. on November 18, 2019. Your mother was found at the bottom of a private stairwell at 11:07 p.m.”
Léa closed her eyes.
She knew the date.
She knew it better than her own birthday.
Victor continued.
“The official conclusion was an accidental fall. But the original investigation contains several inconsistencies.”
“What kind?”
“The building's security system was disabled between 9:48 and 10:41 p.m. The maintenance company claimed it was a technical failure.”
Camille leaned forward.
“Just like the cameras at the mansion last night.”
Victor nodded.
“Possibly the same method, although we need technical evidence before drawing that conclusion.”
Léa felt cold.
“What else?”
“Your mother's phone was never recovered.”
“I know. The police said she probably dropped it somewhere.”
“Her handbag was found beside her body, but her appointment notebook was missing.”
Léa stared at him.
“My mother carried that notebook everywhere.”
“Exactly.”
Victor turned another page.
“And the most troubling detail is this: the emergency call was made by an unidentified woman.”
Camille frowned.
“Unidentified?”
“The caller used a prepaid phone. She reported that someone had fallen down the stairs, then disconnected before giving her name.”
Léa looked toward the window.
Outside, tourists walked along the river, taking photographs beneath the pale morning sky.
The world looked offensively ordinary.
“How can someone die like that,” she whispered, “and nobody ask who was with her?”
Victor did not offer an easy answer.
“Sometimes an investigation follows the evidence available at the time. Sometimes important evidence is overlooked. Our job is to find what was missed.”
He placed a photograph on the table.
“This was taken two weeks before your mother's death.”
Léa leaned forward.
The image showed Elise leaving a medical records archive.
Beside her walked a woman with shoulder-length dark hair.
The woman's face was partially turned away.
“Who is she?”
“We're still trying to identify her.”
Camille examined the photograph.
Then she went completely still.
“Wait.”
She reached for her phone and opened an old family picture.
The image showed Catherine Delcourt at a charity luncheon, standing beside a younger woman.
The same dark hair.
The same distinctive silver necklace.
Camille enlarged the picture.
“This is my mother's former personal assistant.”
Victor looked at her.
“Name?”
“Marianne Voss.”
Léa studied the woman's face.
“Where is she now?”
Camille swallowed.
“She disappeared from our lives seven years ago.”
Victor straightened.
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“My mother told us Marianne resigned and moved abroad. She said she wanted a fresh start.”
“Do you know where?”
“No.”
Victor made a note.
Léa looked at the photograph again.
There was something familiar about Marianne's face.
Something she could not immediately identify.
Then she remembered a woman who had visited her mother several times during Léa's childhood.
She had introduced herself as Aunt Marie.
She brought chocolates at Christmas.
She sometimes took Léa to the park.
And once, when Léa was ten, she had stared at her for a long time before bursting into tears.
Léa looked up.
“I know her.”
Victor stopped writing.
“What?”
“She used to visit us. My mother called her Marie.”
Camille frowned.
“Marianne Voss?”
Léa nodded slowly.
“She told me she was a distant relative.”
Victor leaned forward.
“Do you remember anything unusual about those visits?”
Léa searched her memory.
Then something surfaced.
A rainy afternoon.
She had been twelve.
Marianne had arrived unexpectedly and argued with Elise in the kitchen.
Léa had listened from the hallway.
She remembered Marianne crying.
And she remembered one sentence.
“I can't keep pretending she doesn't exist.”
Léa looked at Victor.
“I think Marianne knew about Juliette.”
Victor closed his notebook.
“Then finding her becomes our priority.”
His phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed.
“Excuse me.”
He answered the call and listened without speaking.
Then he rose from his chair.
“Where?”
A pause.
“Are you certain?”
He ended the call.
Léa stood.
“What happened?”
Victor looked at her.
“My contact located Marianne Voss.”
“Where is she?”
He hesitated.
“In a private medical facility outside Lyon.”
Camille looked relieved.
“Then we can speak to her.”
Victor shook his head.
“There's a problem.”
“What problem?”
“Marianne has been registered there under a different identity for nearly seven years.”
Léa's pulse quickened.
“And?”
May you like
Victor's expression grew grave.
“ACCORDING TO HER MEDICAL FILE, SHE HAS BEEN IN A COMA SINCE THE NIGHT YOUR MOTHER DIED.”
