Chapter 9
Gérard forced himself not to speed up as he drove home.
He was enraged by Nora. He’d tried to reconnect with her and, as usual, she’d misconstrued his intent.
And even if he couldn’t deny it hadn’t been particularly sensitive of him to tell her the story of the suspect who’d hanged himself in her house or the one next door, as always, she had assumed a negative ulterior motive on his part.
She’d thought—
What had she thought?
That he wanted to scare her? Or was trying to worm his way back into her life, into the very place she’d taken refuge to get away from him?
He gripped the steering wheel even harder, trying to shake off the rage that was choking him, the bitterness, pain, anger, sorrow, and grief at losing the woman he loved, despite the scant time and attention he’d spent on her when they were together.
But no, all that was before! Before she’d left him, before she’d shattered all that they’d built together during eighteen long years.
Why wouldn’t she accept that he’d changed?
And how could he communicate it without triggering a heap of accusations that would be bound to lead to another rift?
Since she’d told him she was leaving, he’d sensed himself doing the exact opposite to what he needed to do to get her back: he was either clumsy or, as he’d been just now, downright insensitive; or he formulated his thoughts out loud in a way that came out sounding ambiguous.
It was always when he was in the middle of saying something that he realized how it might be misconstrued.
It was a bit like being under a spell. As if he’d been bewitched, like a cartoon character who suddenly loses control of what they’re doing or saying.
He didn’t recognize himself anymore.
The case of that guy who’d hanged himself had been nagging at him for days, ever since the last time he’d come to fetch the kids.
It had come to him in a flash as he was waiting for them in the car.
He thought he vaguely recognized the neighborhood.
He had a feeling he’d been there before.
And then out of the blue he remembered the strange case of the foxglove poisoning.
David Brunelle. Some poor beleaguered guy overwhelmed by life.
His criminal record wasn’t in his favor, but there was no evidence against him.
The cops had brought him in hoping he’d crack under pressure and they’d get a confession out of him.
Gérard had gotten him out of custody in no time and dropped him back at his house. Then two days later he heard he’d committed suicide. But Nassim had just been born, and his priorities had changed. For once, work had taken a back seat.
As soon as he got home, Gérard went straight into his office and stood there perusing the shelves where he filed his archives.
He found the year of the case—the year of his son’s birth—took down the corresponding file folder, and began flicking through the pages.
It took him a couple of minutes to find what he was looking for: two sheets of paper, one outlining the case, the other with the suspect’s details.
28, rue Edmond-Petit.
Nora lived at number 26.
Yet another opportunity he’d missed to keep his mouth shut. And, for an attorney, that was no small matter.