Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew Too Much
# Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew Too Much
The photograph on Bastien's phone had been taken less than thirty seconds earlier.
He knew because Manon was wearing the little pink cardigan a nurse had just given her, and Théo was sitting in the blue plastic chair beside her.
Someone was watching his children.
Right now.
Bastien looked up from the screen.
“Where are they?”
Émilie stared at him.
“What?”
“Manon and Théo. Where did the nurse take them?”
“To the family waiting area. Bastien, what's wrong?”
He turned the phone toward her.
Émilie read the message.
Her expression changed instantly.
“No,” she whispered.
“Do you recognize the number?”
She shook her head, but her hands were trembling.
“Émilie.”
“I don't know.”
“Look at me.”
She raised her eyes.
“Someone has threatened our children. If you know anything, anything at all, you need to tell me.”
Émilie pressed a hand against her mouth.
“Go get them first.”
Bastien was already moving.
He hurried into the corridor, nearly colliding with an orderly pushing a wheelchair.
The waiting area was just around the corner.
Twenty meters.
Perhaps thirty.
He had never known such a short distance could feel so endless.
When he reached the room, his heart nearly stopped.
The blue chair was empty.
So was the one beside it.
“Manon?”
No answer.
He looked behind the vending machine, then toward the adjoining corridor.
“MANON!”
Several people turned.
An elderly man lowered his newspaper.
A woman holding a coffee cup stared at him.
Bastien approached the reception desk.
“Two children were sitting here. A six-year-old girl and a baby. Where are they?”
The receptionist looked startled.
“I don't know, monsieur.”
“A nurse brought them here less than five minutes ago.”
“Please calm down.”
“Don't tell me to calm down! My children are missing!”
A security guard approached.
“What seems to be the problem?”
Bastien showed him the photograph and threatening message.
The guard's expression became serious.
“Come with me.”
“No. We need to find them.”
“We will. But I need their descriptions.”
Bastien described Manon as quickly as possible.
Chestnut hair.
Brown eyes.
Pink dress.
White cardigan.
Théo was one year old, wearing a cream-colored outfit.
The guard radioed his colleagues.
Then a small voice came from behind Bastien.
“Papa?”
He spun around.
Manon stood near the corridor entrance, holding a paper cup of water.
Beside her was a nurse carrying Théo.
Bastien crossed the distance in three strides.
He dropped to his knees and pulled Manon against him.
“Where were you?”
The little girl looked frightened.
“Théo was crying. The nurse took us to get some water.”
Bastien held her tighter.
The nurse frowned.
“Is something wrong?”
He looked at her identification badge.
Claire Moreau.
“Did anyone approach them?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Claire hesitated.
“There was a woman asking about the children.”
Bastien went still.
“What woman?”
“She said she was a family friend.”
“What did she look like?”
“Dark coat. Brown hair. Perhaps forty-five years old.”
The same woman he had seen outside Émilie's room.
“What did she want?”
“She asked whether the children were alone.”
Bastien felt a surge of anger.
“What did you tell her?”
“That they were waiting for their father.”
Claire swallowed.
“She seemed surprised.”
“Did she give you her name?”
The nurse shook her head.
“No. But she said something strange.”
“What?”
“She asked whether the boy looked like his father.”
Bastien stared at her.
“Why would she ask that?”
“I don't know, monsieur.”
He looked down at Théo.
The baby was chewing peacefully on the corner of his blanket, completely unaware of the fear surrounding him.
Bastien turned to the security guard.
“I want the hospital's surveillance footage preserved. And I want the police called.”
The guard nodded.
But as he reached for his radio, Bastien's phone vibrated again.
Another message.
YOU FOUND THEM. GOOD. NEXT TIME, DON'T LEAVE THEM ALONE.
Bastien stared at the screen.
The sender wasn't merely watching.
The sender was playing with him.
Twenty minutes later, Bastien sat in a small administrative office with Manon asleep against his shoulder and Théo resting in a portable cot.
A hospital security supervisor named Laurent Vidal stood beside a computer monitor.
“We've reviewed the corridor cameras,” Laurent explained.
“And?”
“There is a woman matching your description.”
He turned the screen.
The recording showed a woman wearing a dark coat entering the hospital at 2:17 p.m.
She walked directly toward the elevators.
No hesitation.
No questions.
As though she knew exactly where she was going.
“Can you enlarge her face?” Bastien asked.
Laurent adjusted the image.
The woman turned slightly toward the camera.
Bastien leaned forward.
He had never seen her before.
At least, he didn't think he had.
She had sharp features, dark hair tied in a low bun, and an expression that seemed almost unnaturally calm.
Then something caught his attention.
A silver bracelet on her wrist.
It had a small blue stone surrounded by a delicate circular pattern.
He frowned.
“Pause it.”
Laurent stopped the recording.
Bastien stared at the bracelet.
A memory surfaced.
Three months earlier.
A dinner at Julie's apartment.
Julie had been talking on the telephone in the kitchen.
He remembered hearing her say, “You promised this would never come back to us.”
When Bastien entered, she had ended the call immediately.
Later that evening, a woman had arrived to collect an envelope.
Julie introduced her as a former colleague.
Bastien had barely looked at her.
But he remembered the bracelet.
The same silver bracelet.
The same blue stone.
“Do you know her?” Laurent asked.
Bastien's jaw tightened.
“I think my fiancée does.”
“Your fiancée?”
“Former fiancée.”
He took a photograph of the paused screen with his phone.
Then he asked Laurent to continue playing the recording.
The woman entered the elevator.
A few minutes later, she appeared outside Émilie's room.
She stood there for nearly two minutes.
Watching.
Then she walked toward the waiting area.
But something else happened before she reached the children.
A man approached her.
Tall.
Gray-haired.
Wearing a dark suit.
They exchanged a few words.
The woman handed him something small.
He slipped it into his pocket.
Then they separated.
Bastien leaned closer.
“Who is that man?”
Laurent shook his head.
“I don't recognize him.”
The man turned toward the camera.
And Bastien felt his stomach tighten.
He knew that face.
He had seen it countless times.
In photographs.
At business meetings.
At his father's funeral.
It was Philippe Delmas.
His late father's former business partner.
A man who had disappeared from Bastien's life after a bitter disagreement over the family company.
“What is he doing here?” Bastien whispered.
Laurent glanced at him.
“You know him?”
Bastien didn't answer immediately.
Philippe had been close to his father for almost twenty years.
After his father's death, he had tried to persuade Bastien to sell his remaining shares in the family business.
Bastien refused.
Their last conversation had ended badly.
Philippe had told him that loyalty was a luxury people eventually regretted.
Now he was standing in a hospital corridor, speaking to a woman who had threatened his children.
Or at least to a woman who seemed connected to those threats.
Bastien took another photograph.
“Please preserve this footage,” he said. “The police will need it.”
When Bastien returned to Émilie's room, she was sitting upright, despite the obvious effort it cost her.
“Where are the children?”
“With a nurse I trust. Hospital security is watching them.”
Émilie exhaled.
“Thank God.”
Bastien closed the door.
Then he showed her the photograph of the woman.
“Who is she?”
Émilie's face changed.
She stared at the screen for several seconds.
“Her name is Catherine.”
“Catherine what?”
“I don't know her surname.”
“How do you know her?”
Émilie looked toward the window.
“She came to see me when I was pregnant with Manon.”
Bastien felt his anger rising.
“With Julie?”
“Not the first time.”
He pulled a chair closer.
“Tell me.”
Émilie took a long breath.
“She said she represented someone who wanted to help me.”
“Help you how?”
“Money. A new apartment. A job in another city.”
“In exchange for what?”
Émilie met his eyes.
“Staying away from you.”
Bastien stared at her.
“Someone offered you money to disappear?”
“Yes.”
“Did you accept?”
“No.”
He waited.
Émilie looked ashamed.
“Not at first.”
The words hung between them.
“What does that mean?”
She began crying.
“After Manon was born, things became difficult. I couldn't find steady work. My mother was ill. I was alone.”
Bastien felt a painful mixture of anger and grief.
“You could have called me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Three weeks after Manon's birth.”
He frowned.
“I never received a call.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because someone answered your phone.”
Bastien went still.
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“Julie?”
Émilie shook her head.
“I didn't recognize her voice.”
“What did she say?”
Émilie swallowed.
“She said you knew about the baby.”
Bastien stared at her.
“And?”
“She said you wanted nothing to do with us.”
He felt physically sick.
“That wasn't true.”
“I know that now.”
“No, Émilie. Listen to me. I never knew you were pregnant. I never knew Manon existed. And I never would have abandoned her.”
Tears rolled down Émilie's cheeks.
“I wanted to believe that.”
He reached for her hand.
For a moment, neither spoke.
There were too many lost years between them.
Too many misunderstandings.
Too many decisions made by other people.
Finally, Bastien asked, “What happened to the money?”
Émilie lowered her eyes.
“I accepted help when Manon was two.”
“From Catherine?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough to pay my debts and move to a smaller apartment.”
“What did you sign?”
Émilie looked at him sharply.
“How did you know I signed something?”
“Because people like that never give money without demanding something in return.”
She nodded slowly.
“A confidentiality agreement.”
Bastien leaned back.
“What kind of agreement?”
“I promised not to contact you or your family.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In a locked box at home.”
Bastien took a breath.
“We need that document.”
Émilie gripped his hand.
“There's something you should understand first.”
“What?”
“Catherine didn't work for Julie.”
Bastien frowned.
“How do you know?”
“Because when Julie came to see me three months ago, she was terrified of Catherine.”
The room fell silent.
Bastien looked at the photograph again.
“Then who was Catherine working for?”
Émilie hesitated.
“I never found out.”
By early evening, the police had taken Bastien's statement.
A formal investigation into the threatening messages was underway, although the officer warned him that identifying the sender could take time.
Hospital security had restricted access to Émilie's floor.
Manon and Théo were finally safe enough for Bastien to breathe.
But he couldn't stop thinking about Philippe Delmas.
Why had his father's former partner returned?
Why was he connected to Catherine?
And why had someone spent seven years keeping him away from his children?
At 7:43 p.m., Bastien received a call from Julie.
He stared at her name.
Then answered.
“Bastien.”
Her voice sounded exhausted.
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital.”
“Are the children okay?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“How do you know something happened to them?”
Silence.
“Julie?”
“I heard there was trouble.”
“From whom?”
“Someone called me.”
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
Bastien stood and walked toward the window.
“I'm going to ask you one question. And this time, I want the truth.”
“Okay.”
“Do you know a woman named Catherine?”
Julie inhaled sharply.
He heard it.
Even through the phone.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“Answer me.”
“Bastien, you need to stay away from her.”
“Why?”
“Because she's dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?”
Julie began speaking faster.
“Please, just take the children somewhere safe. Don't tell anyone where you're going.”
Bastien felt a cold sensation move through his chest.
“Julie, what have you done?”
She started crying.
“I thought I could fix it.”
“Fix what?”
“I didn't know they would involve the children.”
“Who are they?”
“Bastien—”
“WHO?”
A long silence followed.
Then Julie whispered something that made him grip the phone tighter.
“Your father.”
Bastien froze.
“My father is dead.”
“I know.”
“He died three years ago.”
“I know, Bastien.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
Julie sobbed.
“There's something about his death you don't know.”
Bastien looked toward Émilie's room.
“What?”
Before Julie could answer, he heard a door open on her end of the call.
Then a man's voice.
Low.
Controlled.
“Julie. Put the phone down.”
Bastien recognized it immediately.
Philippe Delmas.
“Julie?” he said sharply.
There was a brief struggle.
Then Philippe spoke directly into the phone.
“Bastien. We need to have a conversation.”
Bastien's blood ran cold.
“Stay away from my family.”
Philippe gave a quiet sigh.
“You still don't understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“Your father made a decision seven years ago. Everything that happened afterward was a consequence of that decision.”
“What decision?”
Philippe paused.
Then said, “Ask Émilie about the night she left Montpellier.”
Bastien turned toward the hospital room.
“What about it?”
“Ask her what she took from your father's office.”
The call ended.
Bastien stood motionless for several seconds.
Then he entered Émilie's room.
She was awake.
The moment she saw his expression, she sat straighter.
“What happened?”
He closed the door.
“Philippe Delmas.”
Émilie's face went pale.
Bastien noticed.
And suddenly, he understood that her earlier confession had not been complete.
“You know him.”
She said nothing.
“Émilie.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Bastien, please.”
“What happened the night you left Montpellier?”
She looked away.
He stepped closer.
“Philippe told me to ask you what you took from my father's office.”
Émilie covered her face.
For a long moment, the only sound was the steady electronic rhythm of the monitor beside her bed.
Then she whispered, “I didn't steal anything.”
Bastien felt his heart pounding.
“Then what did you take?”
She slowly lowered her hands.
“A copy.”
“Of what?”
“A document your father wanted destroyed.”
Bastien stared at her.
“What document?”
Émilie looked toward the door, as though afraid someone might be listening.
Then she leaned forward.
“Your father wasn't trying to keep us apart, Bastien.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“He was trying to protect us.”
“From whom?”
Émilie's voice broke.
“From the person who arranged the accident that killed him.”
Bastien felt the room tilt.
His father had died in a car crash on a rainy highway.
The police had called it an accident.
There had been no other vehicle identified.
No criminal investigation.
No reason to suspect anything else.
Until now.
“Émilie,” he whispered, “are you telling me my father was murdered?”
She nodded.
Then reached beneath her pillow and pulled out a small brass key.
“I kept this because I knew one day you might need it.”
Bastien took the key.
A number had been engraved into the metal.
317\.
“What does it open?”
Émilie looked directly into his eyes.
“A safe-deposit box at a bank in Montpellier.”
“What's inside?”
“The original evidence your father collected.”
“Evidence against Philippe?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Bastien frowned.
“Then against whom?”
Émilie opened her mouth to answer.
But before she could speak, the hospital room's telephone rang.
She stared at it.
No one had called that telephone all day.
It rang again.
Bastien slowly lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
A man's voice answered.
Calm.
Familiar.
Impossible.
“Hello, son.”
Bastien stopped breathing.
He knew that voice.
He had heard it every morning of his childhood.
He had heard it giving speeches, telling jokes, and calling him home for dinner.
He had heard it for the last time three years earlier.
Before the funeral.
“Dad?”
The voice on the other end paused.
Then said:
“Whatever Émilie has told you, do not open box 317. If you do, your children will pay for what I did.”
The line went dead.
And Bastien stood holding the receiver, staring at the woman who had just told him his father was murdered.