Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 251 - Chapitre 260

CASSANDRAThe day opens like a wound: clean, cold, beyond redemption.The neon lights hum overhead like flies that refuse to die.I rise before the alarm can summon me. The others are still asleep, heads pressed against their pallets, breaths uneven and heavy.I leave the cell in silence, the way one slips out of a church in the middle of Mass without disturbing the devotion.Rina is already waiting near the door. She smiles at me from the corner of her mouth, the way someone smiles at a bet already won.“You’ve got a plan?” she whispers.“Always,” I reply.The word rolls over my tongue like a polished stone: simple, immovable.Delmas walks past us, her badge tapping lightly against her chest. She carries the stiffness of those who sleep too little and think too much. I have studied her pulse, her hesitations, the tremor in her right hand. You don’t need violence to break someone—you only need to know where to place your voice.During yard time, I brush against her. Nothing more than

ALEXANDER'S MOTHERI am still in the living room, the glass warm in my hand, when my dear husband enters. He holds a folded newspaper, his pajama sleeve rumpled. He has the look of a man who believes news is something you gather like flowers: you look, you accept, you go home. But his face changes the moment he sees me. He narrows his eyes, the way one might narrow them at fabric that is too white."What's going on?" he asks, his voice low, already caught somewhere between surprise and concern.I feel the sentence taking shape, heavy, ready to fall. My heart pounds against my ribs; I've put bandages on my composure and my gestures, but nothing stops them from bleeding. I set the glass down, force my voice into order."Lyra's mother is in the hospital," I say. "Someone tried to poison her."He doesn't understand at first. The words glance off him like a gust of wind, then he sees: my hands, my too-bright eyes, the white trail of mascara that has run. The newspaper nearly slips from his

LYRAThe morning opens onto a deceptive calm.A pale sky, washed by the night, a light wind slipping between the curtains. The house seems to breathe slowly, as if hesitating to fully awaken. Nothing, at first glance, betrays the shockwave approaching.I pour the coffee, the gesture mechanical, the warm perfume filling the kitchen.My mother is there, across from me, pale but standing. She attempts a fragile smile, a smile that clings to the cup like a lifeline.And then—the scream.A scream from the living room.Not a scream of fear. Not even of pain. A raw, formless cry that pierces the house and freezes it instantly.Lucas.I drop the coffeepot, run, my heart already clenched.And everything is there, on the coffee table.The newspaper, unfolded, its pages crumpled, the headlines devouring the white surface. Enormous words, heavy, impossible to swallow:CASSANDRA'S MURDER: ALEXANDER'S MOTHER IMPLICATED.Incriminating documents reveal her involvement in several crimes: the abduction

ALEXANDREMorning stretches over a suspended city.Newspapers pile up on sidewalks, screens scream the same words, the same images: my mother handcuffed, flanked by officers, the face I've always known so self-assured, now broken.I remain here, behind the walls of Lyra's family home, unable to move, unable to understand.My mother, Diane D., arrested at dawn.The scandal finally has a face.I saw her on the videos: the door forced open, her coat thrown over her shoulders, her terrible calm as she descended the steps. No cries, no resistance. Just that calm of those who know the truth will eventually strike.I'm sitting on the couch, face in my hands.My fingers tremble. My eyes are empty.The television broadcasts the same images in a loop. I cannot turn it off. The silence would be worse.My father stands near the window, phone in hand. Summoned only, they say. To testify. To "clarify the facts."Each word he speaks seems to weigh a ton. Each breath seems guilty."She knew what she

ALEXANDREThe sky has closed over the city like a leaden lid.The rain has not ceased since dawn, fine, continuous, almost respectful of the drama.The police station is still surrounded by journalists, their microphones extended like weapons.But this time, it is no longer my mother they await: it is him.My father.I remain at a distance, under a doorway, hands in soaked pockets, watching the man I always believed solid walk toward the police station door.His dark coat, his back straight despite everything, that slow step that no longer holds any pride.He knows he is entering a place where every word can turn against him.But he does not retreat.My father never retreats.When he emerges, two hours later, I am still there.He stops upon seeing me, surprised, almost worried."Alexandre…"His voice is hoarse, more than usual.I step forward without a word.The silence is heavy between us, but there is no longer any escape."We need to talk," I say.He nods, slowly.We get into his c