Chapter 7 - The Innocent Woman Who Knew Everything
# Chapter 7 - The Innocent Woman Who Knew Everything
The video ended with an accusation Bastien could barely comprehend.
Your mother, Isabelle, was the one who ordered Subject A to be killed.
For several seconds, he stared at the black laptop screen.
Then he pressed replay.
Adrien's bruised face appeared again. His voice trembled as he repeated the accusation.
Sophie reached over and paused the recording.
“Bastien, stop.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because watching it again won't tell us whether it's true.”
“My mother died eighteen years ago. She can't defend herself.”
“I know.”
“She raised me. She loved me.”
Sophie lowered her eyes.
“And Catherine raised Adrien to believe you stole his life. We already know how easily someone can turn a child against another person.”
Bastien looked back at the screen.
For the first time since discovering Adrien's existence, he felt something more complicated than fear.
He felt anger toward his brother.
Not because Adrien had accused Isabelle.
But because Bastien desperately wanted the accusation to be a lie.
“What if he believes it?” Bastien whispered.
“Then we need to discover who convinced him.”
He turned toward Sophie.
“Do you think my mother was capable of ordering a child's death?”
Sophie hesitated.
“I never knew her.”
“That's not what I asked.”
She met his eyes.
“I think someone wanted both of you to believe terrible things about the people who raised you.”
Bastien sat back.
On the laptop, the confidential family settlement remained open behind the video window.
Two boys.
Two supposed mothers.
One inheritance.
And a contradiction no one had explained.
He suddenly remembered something Doctor Camille Renaud had said.
The records may have been manipulated.
Perhaps the greatest lie wasn't about who had been born first.
Perhaps the greatest lie was the document itself.
Inspector Mercier arrived at the café twenty minutes later.
Bastien had called him immediately after watching Adrien's recording.
The detective examined the laptop, the USB drive, and the scanned agreement.
“Did either of you create or modify these files?” he asked.
“No,” Sophie answered.
“Did you connect the laptop to the internet?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “It automatically joined the café's network.”
Mercier nodded.
“That may explain how the additional file appeared. Someone could have prepared a synchronized folder or an automated transfer.”
Bastien frowned.
“So someone knew we would open it?”
“Possibly.”
“Could they be watching us now?”
Mercier glanced toward the café windows.
“That's something we'll investigate.”
He carefully disconnected the laptop from the network and asked them not to alter anything further.
Then he examined the family settlement.
His expression changed when he reached Isabelle's signature.
“Interesting.”
Bastien leaned forward.
“What?”
“This agreement supposedly determines control of a substantial inheritance.”
“Yes.”
“But there's no obvious reference to a court order, notarial registration, or the legal structure holding the assets.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means this may not be the complete agreement. Or it may have been prepared to mislead someone.”
Sophie looked at him.
“Could the signatures be forged?”
“Of course.”
Bastien stared at the document.
His mother's name had been there.
Black ink on white paper.
He had accepted it as evidence because it frightened him.
Now he realized how little it actually proved.
Mercier turned another page.
“There's something else. The clause about different biological mothers contradicts the reported genetic relationship.”
“Exactly,” Bastien said.
“Which suggests at least one record is false, incomplete, or being interpreted incorrectly.”
The detective closed the folder.
“I want Doctor Renaud to examine the entire archive.”
Bastien nodded.
Then Mercier's telephone rang.
He answered, listened briefly, and stood.
“What happened?” Bastien asked.
The detective looked toward the door.
“We found Julie.”
Julie was alive.
That was the first thing Mercier told him.
The second was that she had been found inside a locked storage room at a property belonging to Philippe Delmas.
She was dehydrated, frightened, and suffering from bruises on her wrists.
She had been taken to a hospital under police protection.
Bastien felt an unexpected wave of relief.
He was still furious with her.
He could not forgive what she had done.
But he had never wanted her dead.
“Can I speak to her?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Mercier replied. “She's receiving medical care, and we need her formal statement.”
“Did she identify who held her?”
“She named Philippe.”
Sophie leaned forward.
“Then you can arrest him.”
“We're looking for him.”
“Again,” Bastien muttered.
Mercier ignored the remark.
“Julie also said something about Catherine.”
Bastien looked up.
“What?”
“She claims Catherine has been manipulating Philippe.”
Sophie frowned.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Why not?” Mercier asked.
“Because Philippe helped Catherine hide my identity thirty-two years ago. They've been working together for decades.”
“Perhaps,” Mercier replied. “But people who cooperate for decades can still turn against each other.”
Bastien thought about the video.
Philippe threatening Henri.
Catherine restraining Adrien.
Julie frightened of both of them.
There were too many competing loyalties.
Too many people who knew only parts of the truth.
And someone was using those fragments to keep everyone suspicious.
That evening, Bastien returned to the hospital.
He found Émilie sitting beside Théo's cot.
Manon was asleep on a small folding bed nearby.
For the first time all day, the room was peaceful.
Émilie looked up.
“Did you find out anything?”
“Julie is alive.”
She closed her eyes.
“Thank God.”
Bastien sat beside her.
“I need to ask you something.”
She nodded.
“Did you ever meet my mother?”
“Isabelle?”
“Yes.”
Émilie looked surprised.
“Once.”
Bastien straightened.
“When?”
“Not long before she died.”
He stared at her.
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
“What happened?”
Émilie thought for a moment.
“She came to the bakery where I worked after school.”
Bastien remembered that bakery.
It stood near the university, with red awnings and small round tables outside.
He had met Émilie there years later.
“What did she want?”
“She asked whether I knew you.”
Bastien frowned.
“But we weren't together then.”
“I know. We had only met briefly.”
“Then why would she ask about me?”
Émilie looked uncomfortable.
“She said you were lonely.”
Bastien felt his throat tighten.
His mother had been seriously ill during those final months.
He remembered how she tried to hide her pain, how she insisted on making breakfast even when standing was difficult.
“She told me you needed someone who would tell you the truth,” Émilie continued.
Bastien looked at her.
“What truth?”
“She didn't say.”
Émilie hesitated.
“But she gave me something.”
His heart began pounding.
“What?”
“A little notebook.”
“Do you still have it?”
Émilie nodded.
“At home. I kept it because it seemed important.”
Bastien stared at her.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because after we separated, I thought it would only hurt you.”
He looked away.
Another secret.
Another decision someone had made on his behalf.
Émilie noticed his expression.
“Bastien, I wasn't trying to deceive you.”
“I know.”
But he wasn't entirely sure.
Not anymore.
The following morning, Bastien and Sophie went to Émilie's apartment in Marseille.
Inspector Mercier had arranged for an officer to accompany them.
The apartment was small but carefully maintained.
Children's drawings covered the refrigerator.
A pair of tiny shoes stood beside the door.
On the sofa lay a folded blanket decorated with stars.
Bastien looked around silently.
This was where his children had grown up.
Where Manon had taken her first steps.
Where Théo had learned to crawl.
And he had missed all of it.
Sophie watched him.
“You okay?”
He nodded.
“Just thinking.”
She didn't press him.
Émilie had told them where to find the notebook.
Inside a wooden chest beneath her bed.
Bastien opened it.
There were old photographs, letters, medical appointment cards, and a small velvet pouch.
At the bottom lay a blue notebook.
He recognized his mother's handwriting immediately.
The first page contained a single sentence.
If Bastien ever discovers what Henri has done, tell him I tried to stop it.
Bastien felt his chest tighten.
Sophie moved closer.
“Read it.”
He turned the page.
The notebook contained dates, names, and short entries.
Some described Isabelle's worsening illness.
Others referred to arguments with Henri.
But one name appeared repeatedly.
Catherine Vasseur.
Bastien read aloud.
“Catherine came again today. Henri says she wants money. I think she wants something else.”
He turned another page.
“Philippe has been helping her. Henri refuses to explain why.”
Another.
“I found the medical documents. There are two boys. Henri says one must remain hidden.”
Sophie covered her mouth.
Bastien continued.
“Henri insists he is protecting Bastien. But I no longer believe him.”
He stopped.
The next entry had been written in darker ink.
I went to Saint-Augustin today. I saw the other boy.
Bastien felt cold.
He read on.
He looked exactly like Bastien. He even smiled the same way.
Sophie whispered, “Adrien.”
Bastien nodded.
Then he turned the page.
The next entry was dated two weeks later.
Henri says the arrangement cannot be reversed. He says Catherine will destroy everything if we expose the truth.
Bastien swallowed.
Below it, Isabelle had written:
I will not allow an innocent child to be sacrificed for our mistakes.
He stared at the sentence.
An innocent child.
Subject A.
Adrien.
His mother hadn't wanted him killed.
At least, the notebook suggested the opposite.
He felt a sudden surge of hope.
Then he turned another page.
And stopped.
A photograph had been taped inside.
It showed Isabelle standing beside a young boy.
The child was about eight years old.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A thin scar above his left eyebrow.
Adrien.
Bastien stared at the photograph.
His mother had known his brother.
She had met him.
Perhaps even tried to protect him.
But why had she never told Bastien?
He turned the photograph over.
On the back, Isabelle had written:
I promised him I would come back.
Sophie was crying.
Bastien looked at her.
“What's wrong?”
She wiped her eyes.
“I remember her.”
He stared.
“Who?”
“Your mother.”
Bastien felt his pulse quicken.
“You met Isabelle?”
Sophie nodded.
“When I was little.”
“Where?”
“At the house where I lived with my adoptive parents.”
Bastien frowned.
“What did she do?”
“She brought toys. Books. Sometimes clothes.”
“Why?”
Sophie looked down.
“I thought she was a family friend.”
Bastien stared at her.
“Did she ever mention Henri?”
“No.”
“Catherine?”
Sophie hesitated.
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She told my adoptive mother that Catherine must never know where I lived.”
Bastien felt a chill.
His mother had been protecting Sophie too.
The woman accused of ordering a child's death had apparently spent years trying to protect multiple children from Catherine.
“Why didn't you tell me this earlier?” he asked.
Sophie looked ashamed.
“I didn't remember her name. I only recognized her when I saw the photograph in the notebook.”
Bastien studied her.
For a moment, he wondered whether he could trust her.
She had appeared suddenly.
She knew about Adrien.
She possessed the USB drive.
And she seemed to know more about his family than she admitted.
But her tears appeared genuine.
Or perhaps he was simply desperate to believe someone.
They continued searching the chest.
At the bottom, beneath a stack of old letters, Bastien found a sealed envelope.
His name was written on the front.
BASTIEN — WHEN YOU ARE READY
He opened it carefully.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
My dear son,
There may come a day when someone tells you I was responsible for terrible things.
I cannot control what people will say after I am gone.
But I want you to know this: I never wanted any child harmed.
Your father made a decision before you were born. He believed it would protect our family.
Instead, it created a prison for all of us.
If you ever meet the other boy, please do not hate him.
He did not choose this life.
Neither did you.
Bastien paused.
His eyes filled with tears.
He continued.
There is one person who knows the complete truth.
She was present when the boys were born.
She signed the original records.
And she has spent her life pretending to be innocent.
Bastien looked at Sophie.
“Who?”
He read the final line.
Her name is Rosalie Fournier.
The room fell silent.
Sophie stared at him.
“Your father's secretary?”
Bastien nodded slowly.
Rosalie.
The woman who had given him his mother's letter.
The woman who had cried while describing Sophie's disappearance.
The woman who had known Henri for twenty-five years.
The woman who had seemed so frightened when Bastien asked about Catherine.
Suddenly, he remembered something.
Rosalie had claimed she didn't know where the missing page of Isabelle's letter had gone.
She said Henri had taken it.
But what if that wasn't true?
What if Rosalie had kept it?
And what if she had been controlling which pieces of the truth Bastien discovered?
Bastien called Inspector Mercier immediately.
“I need you to check Rosalie Fournier.”
The detective sounded surprised.
“Why?”
“My mother named her in a letter.”
“As what?”
“A witness to the original birth records.”
Mercier was silent.
Then he said, “That's interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because Rosalie Fournier isn't her original name.”
Bastien felt cold.
“What?”
“We checked her employment history after you mentioned her earlier.”
“And?”
“She changed her surname thirty-five years ago.”
Bastien stared at the notebook.
“What was her name before?”
Mercier hesitated.
“Rosalie Vasseur.”
Sophie gasped.
Bastien slowly turned toward her.
“Vasseur?”
“Yes,” Mercier said.
“The same surname as Catherine?”
“Exactly.”
Bastien felt his heart pounding.
“Are they related?”
“We're checking.”
But Bastien already knew.
He remembered the way Rosalie had reacted when he mentioned Catherine.
The tears.
The warnings.
The carefully chosen words.
She had known far more than she admitted.
He looked at Sophie.
“Rosalie isn't just a witness.”
Sophie whispered, “Then who is she?”
Bastien stared at his mother's letter.
“I think she's Catherine's sister.”
They returned to Montpellier that afternoon.
Bastien called Rosalie three times.
No answer.
He sent a message.
Nothing.
By the time they reached her apartment, the sun was beginning to set.
The door was locked.
Bastien knocked.
“Madame Fournier?”
Silence.
He knocked again.
“Rosalie, it's Bastien.”
No answer.
The accompanying police officer contacted the building manager.
After confirming that Rosalie had not responded to repeated calls, they arranged a welfare check.
When the door finally opened, the apartment was empty.
But something was wrong.
The wooden box Rosalie had shown Bastien was gone.
The photographs had disappeared.
And on the coffee table lay a single envelope.
Bastien's name was written on it.
The officer photographed the envelope before opening it.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Bastien,
I knew this day would come.
Your mother was right about many things.
But she never understood why Henri made his decision.
I did.
And I have spent thirty-four years paying for my silence.
Bastien's hands trembled as he read.
If you want to know who Subject A really is, come to the old chapel behind Saint-Augustin.
Tomorrow. Midnight.
Come alone.
He looked up.
Sophie stared at him.
“It's a trap.”
“Maybe.”
“You can't go.”
Bastien looked back at the letter.
There was one final sentence.
It had been written in red ink.
And Bastien, do not bring Sophie.
He frowned.
Then read the words beneath it.
“She is not the woman she claims to be.”
Bastien slowly turned toward Sophie.
Her face had gone completely pale.
For the first time since meeting her, she looked genuinely terrified.
Not of Catherine.
Not of Philippe.
But of what Bastien might ask next.
He held up the letter.
“Sophie,” he said quietly, “what is your real name?”
She stepped backward.
“Bastien, please.”
He felt his heart sink.
“What have you been hiding from me?”
Tears filled her eyes.
Then she whispered:
“My name is Sophie. But I'm not Catherine's daughter.”
Bastien stared at her.
“Then whose daughter are you?”
Sophie closed her eyes.
And when she answered, her voice was barely audible.
“Isabelle's.”