Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Photograph
# Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Photograph
The photograph had been taken yesterday.
That was the detail Bastien could not escape.
Not the abandoned medical facility. Not Julie's disappearance. Not even the claim that his father's coffin contained another man's body.
Yesterday.
Henri Laurent had supposedly been dead for three years, yet someone had photographed him standing beside Philippe Delmas less than twenty-four hours ago.
“Send me the photograph,” Bastien told the police officer.
“We'll need to preserve the original as evidence.”
“Then send me a copy.”
There was a pause.
“I'll arrange it.”
Bastien ended the call and stood beside the hospital window.
Below him, the parking lot was almost empty. A few cars moved through the rain, their headlights reflecting against the wet pavement.
Behind him, Émilie watched his expression.
“What did they find?”
He turned.
“A photograph of my father.”
She went pale.
“Where?”
“In Julie's apartment.”
“That's impossible.”
“Apparently, impossible things keep happening to us.”
Émilie lowered her eyes.
Bastien approached her bed.
“There's something I need you to understand. If my father is alive, then someone has been lying to me for three years.”
She said nothing.
“And if he isn't alive, someone is using his identity to frighten me.”
“Bastien—”
“Either way, I need the truth.”
Émilie looked at him with an expression he couldn't interpret.
Fear, certainly.
But something else, too.
Recognition.
“You know something,” he said.
She shook her head.
“I know your father was afraid before the accident.”
“Afraid of Philippe?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what are you afraid of now?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“That you'll discover something you can't forgive.”
Before Bastien could question her further, his phone vibrated.
The photograph had arrived.
He opened the message.
And stopped breathing.
Henri stood outside a pale stone building, wearing a dark overcoat and holding a walking stick. His hair was almost entirely white, and his face looked thinner than Bastien remembered.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
Beside him stood Philippe Delmas.
And between the two men was a woman.
She was turned partly away from the camera, but Bastien could see her profile.
Dark hair.
Elegant posture.
A silver bracelet with a blue stone.
Catherine.
The woman who had approached his children.
The woman who had threatened Émilie.
The woman connected to Julie.
Bastien enlarged the photograph.
Catherine's hand rested on Henri's arm.
Not like an employee assisting an elderly man.
Like someone who knew him intimately.
“What is it?” Émilie asked.
Bastien showed her the image.
She gasped.
Then whispered, “Oh, my God.”
“You recognize her.”
“Yes.”
“Catherine?”
Émilie nodded.
Bastien studied her face.
“Why are you looking at her like that?”
Émilie covered her mouth.
“Because I've seen that photograph before.”
He frowned.
“It was taken yesterday.”
“Not that photograph.”
“Then what?”
She looked directly at him.
“A photograph of your father with that woman. Taken many years ago.”
“Where?”
“In his office.”
Bastien felt his pulse quicken.
“Who is she, Émilie?”
Her voice trembled.
“I think she was his lover.”
At 6:30 the following morning, Bastien met Inspector Adrien Mercier outside the hospital.
Mercier was in his early forties, with tired gray eyes and the restrained manner of a man who had learned not to trust dramatic explanations.
He handed Bastien a paper cup of coffee.
“You haven't slept.”
“Neither would you.”
“Probably not.”
Mercier leaned against his car.
“We've confirmed that the photograph was printed yesterday. That doesn't prove it was taken yesterday.”
“Could it have been altered?”
“We're examining it.”
“And Julie?”
“Still missing.”
Bastien looked toward the hospital entrance.
“Philippe was with her before she disappeared.”
“We're trying to locate him.”
“You know where his office is.”
“We visited it. He wasn't there.”
“Then arrest him.”
“On what charge?”
Bastien stared at him.
“He threatened my family.”
“You reported threatening messages from an unknown sender. We don't yet have evidence connecting them to Delmas.”
“Julie told me he was involved.”
“And we need to find Julie so she can give a statement.”
Bastien turned away in frustration.
Mercier waited.
Then said, “There's something else.”
Bastien looked back.
“We examined your father's death certificate and the original accident report.”
“And?”
“The body was identified through personal effects and dental records.”
“So it was him.”
“That's what the report says.”
“But?”
Mercier hesitated.
“The dentist who supplied the records died six months after the accident.”
Bastien frowned.
“Is that suspicious?”
“Not necessarily. But the identification process deserves another look.”
Bastien stared at the detective.
“You think my father might be alive?”
“I think someone wants you to believe that. My job is to determine why.”
Mercier opened his car door.
“And until we know more, I strongly recommend you stay away from the address in that photograph.”
Bastien said nothing.
The inspector studied him.
“You were planning to go there.”
“I was planning to find out what happened to my father.”
“Those aren't always the same thing.”
By eight o'clock, Bastien was driving toward the outskirts of Montpellier.
He had left Manon and Théo under hospital supervision, with a security officer assigned to their floor. Émilie had begged him not to go.
He had promised not to enter the abandoned facility.
It was a promise he intended to keep.
At least until he understood what he was looking at.
The address led him through narrow country roads bordered by vineyards and cypress trees.
Eventually, he reached a rusted iron gate.
Beyond it stood a large, three-story building surrounded by overgrown gardens.
A weathered sign read:
CLINIQUE SAINT-AUGUSTIN
The windows were dark.
Several were broken.
Weeds pushed through cracks in the driveway.
Bastien parked across the road.
He took out his phone and photographed the building.
Then he compared it with the image from Julie's apartment.
The stone facade matched.
So did the entrance steps.
But something was different.
In the photograph, the building appeared maintained.
The windows were intact.
Fresh flowers stood beside the entrance.
Bastien frowned.
Could the photograph have been taken years earlier and printed yesterday?
Perhaps.
Then he noticed something else.
A modern security camera mounted above the gate.
Its small red indicator light was blinking.
The facility wasn't entirely abandoned.
Someone was maintaining its surveillance system.
Bastien stepped out of the car.
He approached the gate.
A voice suddenly spoke behind him.
“You shouldn't be here.”
He turned.
An elderly woman stood on the opposite side of the road, carrying a shopping bag.
She wore a dark green coat and held a small umbrella.
“Excuse me?”
The woman looked toward the building.
“That place is closed.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you taking pictures?”
Bastien hesitated.
“I'm looking for someone.”
The woman studied him.
“Who?”
“Henri Laurent.”
Her shopping bag slipped slightly in her hand.
Bastien noticed.
“You know him?”
She looked toward the gate again.
Then said, “People who ask questions about that man usually regret it.”
“Please. I'm his son.”
The woman stared at him.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she whispered, “You have his eyes.”
Bastien stepped closer.
“Is he alive?”
The woman looked frightened.
“I can't tell you that.”
“Can't or won't?”
She tightened her grip on her umbrella.
“Your father was a good man once.”
Bastien felt cold.
“Once?”
“He made mistakes.”
“What mistakes?”
The woman looked toward a black vehicle parked farther down the road.
Her expression changed.
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
She began walking away.
Bastien followed.
“Please. I just need to know whether he's alive.”
The woman stopped.
Without turning around, she said, “Ask Catherine what happened to the first child.”
Bastien froze.
“What first child?”
But the woman was already hurrying away.
The words followed him all the way back to Montpellier.
The first child.
He had assumed Catherine was connected to his father's financial secrets.
Perhaps even to a hidden romantic relationship.
But a child?
Bastien had grown up believing he was Henri Laurent's only son.
His mother, Isabelle, had died when he was sixteen.
Henri never remarried.
He had never mentioned another family.
Another child.
Another life.
Bastien pulled into a quiet parking area and called his father's former secretary, Madame Rosalie Fournier.
She had worked for Henri for nearly twenty-five years.
If anyone knew his secrets, it was Rosalie.
She answered after the fourth ring.
“Bastien?”
“Madame Fournier. I'm sorry to bother you.”
“Never apologize for calling me, dear boy.”
He hesitated.
“Do you remember a woman named Catherine?”
Silence.
“Madame Fournier?”
“Where did you hear that name?”
Bastien closed his eyes.
“Everyone keeps asking me that.”
“Bastien, listen carefully. You need to stop investigating your father's private life.”
“Why?”
“Because there are things that should remain buried.”
“My father may still be alive.”
Rosalie inhaled sharply.
“What?”
“Someone sent me a photograph.”
Another silence.
Then she asked, “Was Catherine in it?”
“Yes.”
Rosalie began crying.
Bastien sat upright.
“Madame Fournier?”
“I told Henri this would happen.”
“What would happen?”
“That one day the children would discover everything.”
Bastien gripped the steering wheel.
“Children?”
Rosalie didn't answer.
“Are you telling me I have a brother or sister?”
She whispered, “You need to come see me.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Why can't you tell me over the phone?”
“Because I have something that belongs to your mother.”
Bastien felt his throat tighten.
“My mother?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A letter.”
He stared through the windshield.
“From when?”
“The week before she died.”
Rosalie lived in a small apartment near the historic center of Montpellier.
When Bastien arrived, she opened the door almost immediately.
She looked older than he remembered.
Her silver hair was pinned neatly behind her head, and her hands trembled as she led him into the sitting room.
On the coffee table sat a wooden box.
Rosalie gestured toward it.
“Your mother gave me this shortly before she died.”
Bastien stared at the box.
“Why didn't you give it to me?”
“Because she asked me to wait.”
“Until when?”
Rosalie's eyes filled with tears.
“Until the truth about Catherine came out.”
Bastien slowly opened the box.
Inside were several photographs, a folded letter, and a small gold necklace.
He picked up the first photograph.
It showed his mother standing beside Henri.
They were younger.
Happy.
Then he examined the second.
Henri stood beside Catherine.
She was holding a baby.
Bastien felt his chest tighten.
“Who is the child?”
Rosalie sat down.
“Her name was Sophie.”
“Was?”
Rosalie looked away.
“She disappeared.”
Bastien stared at her.
“When?”
“Thirty-two years ago.”
He did the calculation.
Thirty-two years.
That was before his mother died.
Before his parents' marriage had begun to deteriorate.
Before Henri had become obsessed with protecting the company.
“Was Sophie my father's daughter?”
Rosalie nodded.
Bastien sat down heavily.
He had a sister.
A sister he had never known existed.
“What happened to her?”
Rosalie wiped her eyes.
“Catherine claimed someone took her.”
“Who?”
“She never said.”
“Did my father look for her?”
“For years.”
“Then why didn't he tell me?”
“Because Catherine blamed your mother.”
Bastien stared at her.
“My mother?”
Rosalie nodded.
“She claimed Isabelle arranged the disappearance out of jealousy.”
Bastien shook his head.
“My mother would never hurt a child.”
“I know.”
“Then why would Catherine accuse her?”
“Because Catherine wanted Henri to leave her.”
Bastien looked down at the photographs.
Suddenly, the old woman's words outside the clinic made sense.
Ask Catherine what happened to the first child.
But something still troubled him.
“If Sophie disappeared thirty-two years ago, why is Catherine involved with Philippe now?”
Rosalie's expression darkened.
“Because Sophie may not have died.”
Bastien looked up.
“What?”
“Several years after the disappearance, Henri received a letter claiming she was alive.”
“From whom?”
“No one knew.”
“Did he investigate?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He found a girl who might have been Sophie.”
Bastien leaned forward.
“Where?”
Rosalie hesitated.
“In Marseille.”
He went still.
Marseille.
The city where Émilie had lived.
The city where someone had apparently impersonated him eighteen months earlier.
“Who was the girl?”
Rosalie shook her head.
“I don't know what name she was using.”
Bastien studied her.
“Did Henri ever meet her?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Rosalie looked toward the wooden box.
“He returned from Marseille convinced that someone had deliberately hidden her identity.”
Bastien reached for the folded letter.
His mother's handwriting was unmistakable.
He remembered seeing it on birthday cards and notes left beside his breakfast plate.
With trembling hands, he unfolded the paper.
My dearest Bastien,
If you are reading this, it means the past has finally caught up with our family.
There is something I should have told you while I was alive.
Your father loved another woman before he married me. Her name was Catherine.
She gave birth to a daughter.
I never harmed that child. I never asked anyone to take her away.
But I discovered who did.
Bastien stopped reading.
His hands were shaking.
He looked at Rosalie.
“Did you read this?”
She nodded.
“Then you know.”
Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Yes.”
Bastien lowered his eyes and continued.
The person responsible was someone Henri trusted more than anyone.
Someone who knew our family, our finances, and our secrets.
Someone who understood that a missing child could be used to control a father for the rest of his life.
Bastien swallowed.
The next sentence had been underlined.
If Catherine ever returns, do not trust the story she tells you.
He turned the page.
But the letter ended abruptly.
The final section had been torn away.
Bastien looked up.
“Where's the rest?”
Rosalie stared at the floor.
“I don't have it.”
“Who took it?”
She began trembling.
“Henri.”
Bastien stood.
“My father?”
“He came here the night before the accident.”
“And took the final page?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rosalie covered her face.
“Because it named the person who took Sophie.”
Bastien left Rosalie's apartment shortly before noon.
He had barely reached his car when his phone rang.
Inspector Mercier.
“We have a development.”
“Did you find Julie?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what?”
“We found a connection between the abandoned clinic and Philippe Delmas.”
Bastien stopped beside his car.
“What connection?”
“Delmas owned a holding company that purchased the clinic shortly before it closed.”
“Why?”
“We're investigating.”
Bastien looked at the photographs in his hand.
“Inspector, I think my father had another daughter.”
Mercier was silent for a moment.
“Do you have evidence?”
“A photograph and a letter from my mother.”
“Bring them to the station.”
“I will.”
“There's something else, Bastien.”
“What?”
“We checked the hospital's telephone records.”
Bastien felt his pulse quicken.
“The call from my father?”
“Yes.”
“Where did it come from?”
Mercier hesitated.
“It was routed through a private telephone system.”
“Where?”
“The Clinique Saint-Augustin.”
Bastien looked toward the road.
The abandoned clinic.
The surveillance camera.
The elderly woman.
Someone had called him from that building.
“Was anyone inside?” he asked.
“We're obtaining authorization to search it.”
Bastien was about to respond when another call appeared on his screen.
Émilie.
He told Mercier he would call back and answered.
“Émilie?”
Her breathing was rapid.
“Bastien, you need to come back.”
“What happened?”
“There's a woman here.”
His stomach tightened.
“Catherine?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Émilie hesitated.
“She says she's your sister.”
Bastien gripped the car door.
“What?”
“She says her name is Sophie.”
He couldn't speak.
Émilie continued, her voice shaking.
“Bastien, she knows things about your father. She knows about the clinic. She knows about the box.”
“Don't let her leave.”
“There's something else.”
“What?”
Émilie's voice dropped.
“She brought a photograph.”
“Of what?”
“Of you.”
Bastien frowned.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
His heart began pounding.
The missing night.
The impossible visit to Marseille.
Théo's conception.
“Émilie,” he whispered, “what's in the photograph?”
She began crying.
“It's you standing outside my apartment.”
Bastien closed his eyes.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Émilie took a trembling breath.
“Because Sophie showed me another photograph taken that same night.”
Bastien felt cold.
“What photograph?”
“Of the man who came to see me.”
He stared at the pavement.
“But you said it was me.”
“I thought it was.”
“What do you mean?”
Émilie began sobbing.
“The man in the second photograph looks exactly like you, Bastien.”
He couldn't move.
Then she whispered the words that made everything suddenly more frightening.
“But he has a scar above his left eyebrow. And you don't.”
Bastien stared at his reflection in the car window.
For the first time, he considered a possibility that seemed more disturbing than his father's survival.
Someone had been living parts of his life.
Someone who looked exactly like him.
Someone who had visited Émilie eighteen months ago.
And someone who might know why the truth about Théo's birth had been hidden.