Chapter 3 - The Dead Man's Secret
# Chapter 3 - The Dead Man's Secret
The voice of Bastien's dead father was still echoing in his ears when the hospital telephone rang again.
Bastien stared at the receiver.
For three years, he had mourned his father. He had stood beside his coffin, listened to the priest speak about the fragility of life, and watched the earth fall onto his grave.
Yet someone had just spoken to him in that unmistakable voice.
Hello, son.
The words had been too familiar.
Too natural.
And the warning that followed had been terrifying.
Do not open box 317. If you do, your children will pay for what I did.
“Bastien?”
Émilie's voice brought him back.
He slowly placed the receiver on its cradle.
“Who was that?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“My father.”
Émilie went completely still.
“What?”
“He called me.”
“That isn't possible.”
“I know.”
“Bastien, your father is dead.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Then someone has a very convincing way of imitating him.”
Émilie looked toward the telephone.
“What did he say?”
Bastien hesitated.
He had already learned that secrets could destroy lives. Yet something about the warning made him reluctant to repeat it.
“He told me not to open the box.”
Émilie's expression changed.
“Then they know.”
“Know what?”
“That I gave you the key.”
Bastien stepped closer.
“Who are they, Émilie?”
She closed her eyes.
“I don't know everyone involved.”
“Then tell me who you do know.”
She looked exhausted. Her fingers trembled against the hospital blanket.
“Your father was investigating something before we separated. He discovered irregularities in the company accounts. Large transfers. Payments to businesses that didn't appear to exist.”
Bastien frowned.
“Why didn't he tell me?”
“Because he suspected someone close to him.”
“Philippe?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
Émilie swallowed.
“He never gave me a name.”
Bastien stared at her.
“Then how did you get involved?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because I found something I wasn't supposed to see.”
Seven years earlier, Émilie had occasionally helped Bastien's father, Henri Laurent, organize documents for the family company.
Henri trusted her.
He had often joked that she was more careful with paperwork than his entire accounting department.
One evening, while Bastien was away on business, Henri asked Émilie to collect a folder from his office.
She arrived shortly after eight.
The building was nearly empty.
As she approached Henri's office, she heard voices.
One belonged to Henri.
The other was unfamiliar.
“You can't keep doing this,” Henri said.
The second man answered calmly.
“You agreed to the arrangement.”
“I agreed to an investment. Not to this.”
“It's too late to change your mind.”
Émilie stopped outside the door.
Then she heard something strike the desk.
Henri spoke again.
“If Bastien discovers what you've done, he'll go straight to the authorities.”
The other man laughed.
“Then make sure he doesn't discover it.”
Émilie stepped backward.
Her handbag struck a decorative vase.
The sound echoed through the corridor.
Inside the office, the conversation stopped.
Émilie hurried toward the staircase.
She had almost reached it when someone called her name.
“Émilie.”
Henri stood at the office doorway.
He looked frightened.
She had never seen him frightened before.
“Come inside,” he said.
When she entered, the second man was gone.
Henri locked the door.
Then he opened a drawer and removed a thick folder.
“I need you to keep something safe.”
“What is it?”
“Documents.”
“Why me?”
“Because the people looking for them won't expect me to trust you.”
Émilie hesitated.
“Shouldn't you call the police?”
Henri looked at her sadly.
“I don't know who I can trust anymore.”
He removed several pages from the folder and placed them inside a brown envelope.
“These are copies. The originals are somewhere secure.”
“Where?”
“You don't need to know.”
He handed her the envelope.
“If anything happens to me, give these to Bastien.”
Émilie stared at him.
“What could happen to you?”
Henri didn't answer.
Instead, he said something she would remember for the rest of her life.
“Whatever happens, protect the children.”
At the time, Émilie hadn't understood.
She wasn't yet certain she was pregnant.
And Henri had no grandchildren.
Back in the hospital room, Bastien stared at her.
“He said children?”
Émilie nodded.
“That's the word he used.”
“Seven years ago?”
“Yes.”
Bastien sat down.
His father had known something.
Perhaps about Émilie's pregnancy.
Perhaps about a danger that had existed long before Manon was born.
“Where are the copies?”
Émilie lowered her eyes.
“Catherine took them.”
“When?”
“Two months after Manon was born.”
“How?”
“She came to my apartment. She knew about the envelope.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“No. She threatened me.”
Bastien's jaw tightened.
“With what?”
“With you.”
He frowned.
“She said if I didn't cooperate, you would be accused of stealing money from your father's company.”
Bastien shook his head.
“I never stole anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you believe her?”
“Because she showed me documents with your signature.”
He looked at her sharply.
“My signature?”
“Yes.”
“On what?”
“Transfer authorizations.”
Bastien felt cold.
He had signed hundreds of documents while working for the family business.
Some had been prepared by Philippe.
Others by Henri's legal department.
He had rarely questioned routine paperwork.
Suddenly, that trust seemed dangerously naive.
Émilie continued.
“She said the evidence would be enough to send you to prison.”
“And you believed giving her the envelope would protect me?”
“I was frightened, Bastien.”
Her voice broke.
“I had a newborn daughter. I thought I was protecting both of you.”
He looked away.
He wanted to be angry.
Part of him was angry.
But he could see how carefully someone had constructed the trap around her.
A young mother.
Alone.
Financially vulnerable.
Terrified of destroying the life of the man she still loved.
Someone had understood exactly how to manipulate her.
And they had succeeded.
At nine that evening, Bastien received a message from an unfamiliar number.
If you want to understand your father's death, meet me tomorrow at 8 a.m. Café des Orangers, Montpellier. Come alone.
There was no signature.
He showed the message to Émilie.
“Don't go,” she said immediately.
“Someone knows what happened.”
“Or someone wants to lure you somewhere.”
“I can't ignore this.”
“You have two children now.”
Bastien looked toward the adjoining room where Manon and Théo were sleeping under the supervision of a hospital nurse.
“I know.”
Émilie reached for his hand.
“Then start thinking like a father.”
The words struck him harder than she intended.
For six years, Manon had lived without him.
For one year, Théo had never known his voice.
And now, within hours of meeting them, Bastien was considering walking into a possible trap.
He sat beside Émilie.
“What would you have me do?”
“Tell the police.”
“I will.”
“And don't trust anyone who approaches you privately.”
Bastien nodded.
Then his phone rang.
Julie.
He stared at the screen.
Émilie noticed.
“Is it her?”
“Yes.”
“Answer.”
He hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
Émilie looked at him steadily.
“She knows something. We need to understand what.”
Bastien accepted the call.
“Julie.”
Her voice sounded strained.
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Please don't hang up.”
“Then tell me why Philippe was with you.”
Silence.
“Julie?”
“He came to my apartment.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to know whether you'd found the key.”
Bastien exchanged a glance with Émilie.
“What key?”
Julie gave a shaky breath.
“Don't do that, Bastien. I know Émilie has it.”
“Why does Philippe want it?”
“Because he thinks your father left something behind.”
“Something in box 317?”
Julie went silent.
Bastien felt his pulse quicken.
“How do you know about the box?”
“I heard them talking.”
“Them?”
“Philippe and Catherine.”
“Where?”
“At Philippe's office.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
Bastien stared at the wall.
Three months.
The same period during which Julie had learned about Manon and Théo.
“Julie, why were you meeting Philippe?”
She began crying.
“Because I owed him money.”
Bastien closed his eyes.
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“How much, Julie?”
“Four hundred thousand euros.”
He nearly dropped the phone.
“What?”
“I made a terrible mistake.”
“What kind of mistake?”
“An investment. He promised I would get everything back.”
“And when you didn't?”
“He said I could repay him another way.”
Bastien felt sick.
“By keeping my children from me?”
Julie sobbed.
“I didn't know about Théo at first. I swear.”
“But you knew about Manon.”
“Yes.”
“And you still planned to marry me.”
“I loved you.”
Bastien looked at Émilie.
Love.
Everyone kept using that word.
As though it could excuse everything.
“What did Philippe ask you to do?” he demanded.
Julie hesitated.
“Convince you to sell your shares in the company.”
Bastien went still.
He owned thirty-two percent of Laurent Industries.
The shares had been inherited after Henri's death.
Philippe had repeatedly offered to buy them.
Bastien had always refused.
“Why would our marriage change that?”
“Because I was supposed to persuade you that we needed a fresh start.”
Bastien laughed without humor.
“A fresh start funded by selling my father's company.”
Julie said nothing.
“And if that failed?”
Her breathing changed.
“Julie?”
She whispered, “There was another plan.”
“What plan?”
“I never agreed to it.”
“What plan?”
Her voice dropped.
“They wanted to make you look mentally unstable.”
Bastien froze.
“What?”
“They said if you started behaving irrationally, your family could be convinced you weren't capable of managing the shares.”
Bastien looked toward the hospital corridor.
The interrupted wedding.
The children.
The threatening messages.
The impossible call from his dead father.
Someone had been carefully pushing him toward panic.
And he had given them plenty of reasons to describe his behavior as erratic.
“Julie,” he said quietly, “did Philippe arrange for Manon to come to the church?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you?”
“No!”
“Then who did?”
“I swear I don't know.”
He heard her crying.
Then she said, “Bastien, please listen. Philippe doesn't want you to open the box because of the money.”
“Then why?”
“Because of the name inside.”
“What name?”
Before she could answer, a loud noise came through the phone.
A door slamming.
Julie gasped.
“Someone's here.”
“Julie?”
“Bastien, I have to go.”
“Don't hang up!”
Her voice became a desperate whisper.
“If anything happens to me, look inside the blue jewelry case in my bedroom.”
Then the call ended.
Bastien immediately called back.
No answer.
He tried again.
Nothing.
He contacted the police officer handling the threats and reported the conversation, including Julie's last words.
The officer promised to send a patrol to her apartment.
But Bastien couldn't shake the feeling that time was running out.
He walked back into Émilie's room.
“She said Philippe wants my shares.”
Émilie looked unsurprised.
“Your father suspected the company was being used to move money.”
“But Julie said there's a name in the box.”
Émilie closed her eyes.
“I don't know whose.”
Bastien studied her.
“You're still hiding something.”
She looked at him.
“I've told you everything I know about the documents.”
“Then tell me something else.”
“What?”
“Why did you have Théo?”
Émilie stared at him.
The question was painful, and he knew it.
But the timeline troubled him.
Manon was six.
Théo was one.
And Bastien hadn't knowingly seen Émilie for seven years.
Yet the paternity tests had confirmed both children were his.
He had been too overwhelmed to question how that was possible.
Now he couldn't ignore it.
“Bastien—”
“How could Théo be my son?”
Émilie began trembling.
“I wanted to explain.”
“Explain now.”
She looked toward the door.
Then back at him.
“Do you remember the night you came to my apartment in Marseille?”
Bastien frowned.
“What night?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
He shook his head.
“I've never been to your apartment in Marseille.”
Émilie's face drained of color.
“Yes, you have.”
“No.”
“You came late. You said you wanted to talk.”
Bastien stared at her.
“I was in Paris eighteen months ago.”
She looked horrified.
“That's impossible.”
“I was attending a business conference.”
Émilie shook her head.
“No. You were there. I saw you.”
“Émilie, I would remember seeing you.”
She pressed a hand to her forehead.
“I don't understand.”
Bastien felt a cold sensation creeping through him.
“Did we speak?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“You apologized.”
“For what?”
“For leaving me.”
He stared at her.
“Then what happened?”
Émilie looked away.
“You stayed.”
The room became unbearably quiet.
Bastien's thoughts raced.
He remembered the Paris conference.
The hotel.
The meetings.
But there was something else.
One evening, he had become violently ill after dinner.
He remembered waking the next morning with a terrible headache.
Julie had told him he had drunk too much wine.
He had accepted her explanation.
But now he wasn't so certain.
“Émilie,” he said carefully, “are you absolutely sure it was me?”
She looked wounded.
“Of course I am.”
He didn't answer.
Because he was beginning to understand that someone might have manipulated both of them in ways neither could imagine.
At 11:26 p.m., the police called.
They had reached Julie's apartment.
The front door was unlocked.
There were signs of a struggle.
But Julie was gone.
Bastien listened in silence as the officer explained that investigators were searching the building and reviewing nearby cameras.
Then the officer asked a question.
“Did Madame Julie mention a blue jewelry case?”
Bastien straightened.
“Yes.”
“We found it.”
“Was there something inside?”
“A photograph.”
Bastien frowned.
“Of what?”
The officer hesitated.
“Of your father, Monsieur Laurent.”
Bastien felt his stomach tighten.
“An old photograph?”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“The photograph appears to have been taken recently.”
Bastien gripped the phone.
“That's impossible.”
“There's something else.”
“What?”
“The photograph was accompanied by a handwritten note.”
Bastien closed his eyes.
“Read it.”
The officer paused.
Then spoke slowly.
“Henri Laurent did not die in the accident. The man buried in his grave was someone else.”
Bastien couldn't move.
For three years, he had visited that grave.
He had placed flowers on it.
He had spoken to his father there.
And now someone was claiming that the body beneath the headstone had never been Henri Laurent at all.
But the officer wasn't finished.
“There's one more thing, monsieur.”
Bastien swallowed.
“What?”
“On the back of the photograph, someone wrote an address.”
“Where?”
“A private medical facility outside Montpellier.”
Bastien stared toward Émilie.
The officer continued.
“We checked the facility's public records. It closed four years ago.”
“Then why would someone give me that address?”
“We don't know.”
A pause.
“However, the photograph has a date printed on it.”
Bastien's heart began pounding.
“What date?”
The officer answered.
“Yesterday.”
Then he added the detail that made Bastien's blood run cold.
“And in the photograph, your father is standing beside Philippe Delmas.”