Chapter 5 - THE FIRST CRACK IN THE LIE
Camille had practiced grieving in front of her bedroom mirror.
She had practiced lowering her eyes.
She had practiced letting her voice tremble.
She had even practiced the precise moment when she would press a handkerchief against her lips and ask the police whether they believed Julien had suffered.
But she had not practiced what to do when a detective placed bloodstained rope on an evidence photograph in front of her.
“That doesn't mean anything,” Victor said.
Detective Mercer turned toward him.
“I was speaking to Mrs. Moreau.”
Victor smiled tightly.
“I'm simply trying to help.”
“Then please let her answer.”
Camille looked at the photograph.
The rope was dark blue.
She recognized it.
It had been wrapped around Julien's wrists.
Her stomach twisted.
“I've never seen it before,” she whispered.
Mercer studied her.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband owned the yacht?”
“Yes.”
“And you were aboard when he disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Who else was present?”
Camille swallowed.
“Victor. The captain. Several crew members.”
“Anyone else?”
She hesitated.
Victor shifted beside her.
“No,” she said.
Detective Brooks made a note.
Mercer leaned back.
“Mrs. Moreau, we have reason to believe your husband may not have fallen accidentally.”
Camille began crying.
This time, the tears were real.
Victor placed a hand on her shoulder.
“She's been through enough.”
Mercer looked at his hand.
Then at Camille.
“Would you prefer to speak with us privately?”
Victor answered before she could.
“No.”
Mercer waited.
Camille looked at Victor.
Then at the detectives.
“I think,” she said quietly, “I'd like a moment alone.”
Victor's expression hardened.
“Camille.”
She flinched.
Mercer noticed.
“Mr. Victor, please wait outside.”
For several seconds, Victor did not move.
Then he smiled.
“Of course.”
When the door closed, Camille felt as though she could breathe for the first time all morning.
Mercer lowered his voice.
“Mrs. Moreau, is there something you're afraid to tell us?”
She stared at the table.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Brooks leaned forward.
“What is it?”
Camille opened her mouth.
Then her phone vibrated.
A message appeared from Victor.
REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENS TO PEOPLE WHO TALK.
Camille turned the phone facedown.
Her courage vanished.
“No,” she said.
Mercer frowned.
“No?”
“I mean... I'm afraid my husband is dead.”
The detectives exchanged a glance.
They continued questioning her for another hour.
Camille repeated the accident story.
She described Julien as exhausted.
Distracted.
Emotionally overwhelmed.
She claimed he had been drinking heavily.
But every lie made the next one harder to remember.
When the detectives finally left, Victor returned.
He closed the door.
Slowly.
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing.”
He approached.
“Camille.”
“I said nothing!”
Victor grabbed her wrist.
“Don't lie to me.”
She pulled away.
“You're hurting me.”
He released her.
For a moment, his expression softened.
“I'm sorry.”
She stared at him.
She had heard that apology before.
After he shouted.
After he threatened.
After he reminded her that the missing millions could send her to prison.
He always apologized.
And she always believed him.
But this time, she stepped backward.
“Don't touch me.”
Victor's face changed.
“You need to remember whose idea this was.”
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
“You wanted Julien's money.”
“I wanted a divorce.”
Victor laughed.
“You wanted a divorce after transferring millions into our accounts?”
She looked away.
He moved closer.
“You helped forge documents. You helped manipulate him. You brought him aboard that yacht.”
“I didn't tell you to kill him.”
“You stood there and watched.”
Camille's eyes filled with tears.
Victor leaned toward her.
“And if I go to prison, sweetheart, you're coming with me.”
He walked out.
Camille remained standing in the center of the room.
For the first time, she understood that Julien's death had not freed her.
It had placed her under Victor's control.
### Meanwhile
At the private medical facility, Julien sat with Reeves and Lefèvre reviewing the financial evidence.
The investigation was expanding.
Federal agents had identified seven shell companies connected to Victor.
Three were registered in Delaware.
Two in the Cayman Islands.
One in Nevada.
And one in a jurisdiction whose records were notoriously difficult to obtain.
Moreau Holdings had paid millions in fraudulent consulting fees.
The money had then been transferred through multiple accounts.
Some had been used to purchase luxury properties.
Others had funded speculative investments.
But a substantial amount remained unaccounted for.
“Where did the rest go?” Julien asked.
Reeves studied the spreadsheet.
“That's what we're trying to determine.”
Lefèvre pointed to a transfer.
“This one interests me.”
Julien leaned closer.
The payment was for $850,000.
It had been authorized by Richard Bellamy.
The recipient was a company called Harborlight Strategic Partners.
Julien frowned.
“I've never heard of it.”
Reeves turned the page.
“Neither had we.”
“Who owns it?”
“On paper, a holding company.”
“And behind that?”
Reeves hesitated.
“We're still confirming.”
Julien looked at the date.
The transfer had occurred three weeks before the yacht incident.
Something about it bothered him.
“Richard approved this?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask him.”
“We intend to.”
Julien shook his head.
“No. I want to speak to him.”
“That's not advisable.”
“He's been my CFO for sixteen years.”
“And he may be part of the conspiracy.”
Julien stared at the photograph.
“Richard has a wife. Two children. A reputation. He wouldn't risk everything for a few hundred thousand dollars.”
Reeves looked at him.
“People don't always betray you for money.”
Julien remained silent.
Then Lefèvre's phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
His expression changed.
“What?”
A pause.
“When?”
He ended the call.
Julien felt a familiar dread.
“What happened?”
Lefèvre looked toward Reeves.
“Richard Bellamy was found unconscious in his office.”
Julien stood.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. He's being taken to the hospital.”
“What happened?”
Lefèvre swallowed.
“Investigators believe he may have been poisoned.”
Reeves immediately reached for his phone.
But Lefèvre had not finished.
“There was a note on Richard's desk.”
Julien stared at him.
“What did it say?”
May you like
The attorney's voice dropped.
“Julien Moreau was never supposed to survive.”
