LOGINÉlianorMarcus's little house is warm, too warm perhaps, with its wood stove purring in the corner, its candles burning on the table, its windows looking out onto the snowy garden, this intimacy he created for himself, for me, for us, without knowing it, without wanting it, without daring to, while waiting for me to come, to knock, to enter, to stay. I am sitting on his sofa, his arms are still around me, his hand does not let go of mine, and I am holding the photo, this photo I found in Sabrina's attic, this photo that has crossed twenty-four years of lies, of secrets, of crimes, to reach me, to tell me the truth, to show me my face, her face, our face, my mother's and mine, reunited, at last, on this little piece of paper yellowed by time.I look at it again, I cannot stop looking at it, as if my eyes wanted to engrave every detail, every shadow, every light, every smile, every glance, everything that makes this woman my mother, that I am h
ÉlianorThe private detective I hired is named Maurice Delattre, he is sixty-two years old, thirty-five years in the profession, thousands of investigations, hundreds of secrets unearthed, dozens of lives changed forever by what he has found, and he is sitting across from me in my office with that face he must have when he has to announce to someone that everything she thought she knew about her life is a lie, that the foundations on which she built her existence are sand, that the ground beneath her feet is about to open up and swallow her. He has placed on my desk a thick envelope, beige, the kind used for official documents, civil status records, birth certificates, papers one signs without reading, files away without looking at, forgets in a drawer telling oneself they are there, they are true, they are the proof of what one is, of what one has been, of what one will be."Ms. Hammond," he says in a voice he wants neutral, professional, detached, but which I sense is hesitant, almo
Marcus I find her in her office, late at night, she is sitting in front of her screens, in front of her files, in front of her reports, in front of her fears, in front of her doubts, in front of everything that keeps her awake, that keeps her away from me, away from us, away from this life we could have, that we should have, that we will have, perhaps, one day, if she stops running, if she stops being afraid, if she stops doubting, if she stops hiding, if she stops forgetting herself, if she stops forgetting everything that matters, everything that is worth it, everything that deserves to be fought for, to stay for, to love, to live for. I knock on the door, she doesn't answer, I enter, she doesn't look at me, she stays there, in front of her screens, in front of her files, in front of her reports, in front of her fears, in front of her doubts, and I approach, I approach slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal, as one approaches someo
Élianor The days pass, Sabrina is in detention, Marc is nowhere to be found, the police are looking for him, tracking him, following him, but he is like a shadow, like a ghost, like a breath, he passes, he disappears, he reappears, he hides, he burrows, he waits, he prepares, he organizes, he schemes, I know it, I feel it, I have known it from the beginning, since I started digging, searching, finding, since I knew Sabrina was not my mother, that Viviane was alive, that my father had been poisoned, that everything was nothing but lies, secrets, crimes, since I knew Marc was behind all of this, behind Sabrina, behind Viviane, behind Gérard, behind me, behind all of us, from the beginning, from always, for twenty years. I am in my office, in front of my screens, in front of the reports from the detective I hired, reports that say what I already know, what I guess, what I fear, what I refuse to see, what I refuse to believe, but which is th
She places in front of me a photo, a photo of Marc, a photo of Marc in his office, a photo of Marc with files, documents, papers, things I don't know about, that I don't want to know about, that I must not know about, that I cannot know about, because it's too much, too many secrets, too many lies, too many crimes, too much of everything, and she tells me, in a voice that doesn't need to shout, that doesn't need to threaten, that doesn't need to scare, because the truth is there, because the evidence is there, because the photos are there, because everything is there, and that you, you are there, with your trembling hands, your eyes that dart away, your voice that cracks, your breath that chokes, your heart that beats too fast, too hard, too long: "We know about Marc, Ms. Fabron, we know he is your lover, we know he is the father of your daughter, we know he is the mastermind of this affair, of this enterprise of lies, secrets, crimes, we know he org
She hangs up, I stay there, the phone in my hand, looking at the garden through the window, looking at the falling snow, looking at Marcus's little house, looking at the light shining, shining in the night, shining like a beacon, like a hope, like a promise, and I think of Sabrina, of what she did, of what she wanted to do, of what she would have done, if I hadn't been there, if I hadn't searched, if I hadn't found, if I hadn't saved my father, saved the truth, saved what she wanted to destroy, what she wanted to kill, what she wanted to erase, annihilate, make disappear, like Viviane, like Gérard, like everything that stood in the way of her path, her plans, her lies, her secrets, her crimes. I think of Marc, of what he did, of what he wanted to do, of what he would have done, if we had let him, if we hadn't stopped him, if we hadn't prevented him from continuing, from protecting Sabrina, from protecting their secrets, their lies, their crimes, and I wonder, I







