Chapter 3 - The Cold Room of Law
The forensic tent that rose over the stagnant swimming pool within two hours looked like a white silk shroud dropped onto a nightmare. The quiet residential neighborhood was completely locked down, blocked by red and white police tape that stretched from Madame Dubois’s driveway to the corner of the main road. Journalists from Clermont-Ferrand had already arrived, their long camera lenses peeking over the hedges, trying to catch a glimpse of the small girl wrapped in a forensic blanket sitting in the back of an ambulance.
Julien refused to let the medical staff take Chloé to the hospital without him. He sat on the edge of the ambulance bumper, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, while a young female detective named Captain Moreau knelt on the asphalt in front of them, a digital recorder in her hand.
"Julien," Captain Moreau said gently, her eyes shifting from his bandaged hand to Chloé’s pale face. "The doctors have checked Chloé’s vitals. She’s severely dehydrated and malnourished, but she is stable. We need to know exactly what she saw before we take her into the clinic. Chloé, sweetheart, can you tell me about the bags Marc carried?"
Chloé squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face into Julien’s ribs. "They were heavy," she whispered, her voice muffled by the thick wool of the blanket.
"Marc brought them out of the basement at night. He thought I was asleep in the cage, but the metal bars make a noise when the wind blows, so I woke up. He was talking to Mommy. He told her that if she didn't help him tie the ropes, he would put her in the ground next to the others."
Julien felt the cold horror seep into his bones. The others.
"Who were the others, Chloé?" Captain Moreau asked, her voice dropping into an urgent, quiet whisper.
"The ladies from the office," Chloé said simply, as if stating a fact from a school textbook. "The ones who used to come to the house when Marc was doing his real estate paperwork. They would go into the basement with him, and then they wouldn't come out. Mommy told me they went on vacation, but I saw their shoes in the hallway closet. One of them had shiny red heels. They’re still in there."
Captain Moreau stood up instantly, her face pale, gesturing to a group of heavily armed tactical officers who were preparing to breach the front door of the house. "Breach the structure now!" she ordered through her radio. "Suspects are considered armed and highly dangerous. Potential multiple homicides inside the residence."
The tactical team moved like a wave of black iron, throwing a flashbang through the living room window before battering down the reinforced oak door. The concussive blast shook the pavement beneath Julien’s feet, a loud BANG that made Chloé scream and scramble into his lap, her tiny arms locking around his neck with the same desperate strength she had used in the garden.
"I’ve got you, Chloé, I’ve got you," Julien chanted, his tears finally breaking through his stoic mask, falling into her matted blonde hair. He looked over her shoulder as two figures were dragged out of the front doors in handcuffs.
Marc came out first. He was a massive man, six-foot-four, with a thick neck and a face that looked completely indifferent to the chaos around him. His eyes scanned the crowd of neighbors until they landed on Julien. He didn't look angry; he gave a slow, deliberate nod, his lips curving into a sick, tight smile that promised retribution.
Behind him came Sophie.
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She looked unrecognizable. The vibrant, creative woman Julien had married was completely gone. Her skin was a sallow, bruised grey, her hair falling out in clumps, her clothes filthy and torn. She didn't look at the police or the cameras. She looked straight at Julien and her daughter, her lips moving silently, forming the same word over and over again through her cracked lips:
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
