Unexpected Visit
Gaspard
Sitting in the living room, I drink my coffee quietly, staring into space.
I think about Bianca. About our last conversation.
Bianca really believed I was going to leave Nora for her—leave my house, my children, my life—to move in with a woman who had still been ready to marry another man just a few weeks ago while carrying my child.
The irony would almost be funny if the situation weren’t such a mess.
She doesn’t scare me. She can’t afford to scare me. If she talks, she goes down with me. She knows that.
I scroll distractedly through my emails. On the couch across from me, Lucas and Inès are arguing over which series to watch. Fifteen and seventeen, and they agree on nothing.
Some things, at least, never change.
Nothing that hints at what’s coming next.
The doorbell rings.
Nora wipes her hands on her apron and goes to answer it. I barely pay attention. On a Saturday morning, it’s probably the neighbor. Or a delivery.
She comes back two minutes later.
Her voice has changed.
“Honey… there’s an inspector at the door with two police officers. They’re asking to speak with you.”
I slowly set my cup down.
What the hell is this about?
I stand, smooth out my pants, and walk toward the door with the calm I spent years cultivating.
Rule number one with cops: never let them see you’re afraid.
The man standing in the doorway looks to be in his thirties, direct gaze, the quiet confidence of officers who know exactly why they’re here. Two uniformed policemen stand behind him.
“Mr. Peltier. Inspector Sanders, Criminal Brigade. You are under arrest for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit a crime. Please come with us.”
I don’t move.
The words reach me, but my brain still refuses to assemble them properly.
Attempted murder.
It’s absurd.
They have nothing. They can’t have anything. The metadata was scrubbed. The payments went through three shell companies.
And Bianca isn’t stupid enough to talk.
Bianca. Our last conversation in her apartment.
A cold weight settles in my gut.
“There’s been a mistake,” I say. “I’m calling my lawyer.”
“That’s your right. You’ll be able to do that at the station.”
Nora is frozen beside me.
I don’t look at her. I can’t.
“Do you have a warrant?”
Without a word, Sanders hands me the document. I skim through it.
Judicial warrant. Investigating magistrate. Everything is in order.
I let the officers guide me toward the door. One of them asks me to present my wrists for the handcuffs—right outside my own house, in front of my children, who stopped arguing and are now watching us from the hallway with expressions I’ve never seen on their faces before.
That’s when I make the mistake of looking at Nora.
She isn’t crying. She isn’t screaming. She’s looking at me with that neutral, almost clinical expression that’s worse than anything else. As if she’s searching my face for someone she can no longer find.
I say nothing. There’s nothing left to say.
The door closes behind me.
And for the first time, I realize I’ve already lost everything.