Chapter 6 - The Ghost in the Mailbox
The summer months passed in a blur of quiet therapy sessions and long, silent walks along the banks of the Rhône river. A specialized child trauma therapist named Dr. Girard came to the apartment twice a week, sitting with Chloé on the pink rug, using colored clay and drawings to help her process the dark memories of the garden cage.
Progress was slow, measured in tiny, fragile victories. A real laugh when a stray cat slipped on the balcony railing; a night where she slept for six hours straight without waking up from a nightmare about green water; a morning where she asked if she could help Julien chop the strawberries for her breakfast.
But the past was not done with them.
In mid-September, just as the leaves on the chestnut trees were beginning to turn a deep, brittle gold, Julien walked down to the ground floor to check the apartment’s mailbox. Amid the usual bills and advertising flyers sat a thick, official envelope from the regional court of Clermont-Ferrand.
It was a summons. The trial of Marc Vasseur and Sophie Laurent was scheduled to begin in November.
Julien sat at the kitchen table, the legal documents spread out before him under the warm light of the pendant lamp. His name was listed as a primary witness for the prosecution, but worse, Chloé’s name was listed beneath his. The defense attorneys for Marc were demanding a formal deposition from the child, arguing that her statements to the police were contaminated by her father’s influence during the rescue.
"They want to put her on a stand," Julien whispered to the empty kitchen, his hand slamming down onto the table, making his coffee cup rattle. "They want to drag her into a courtroom and let that monster look at her again."
The door to Chloé’s bedroom opened softly. She was holding an old stuffed rabbit she had rediscovered in her closet, its grey fur worn thin from years of hugs. She looked at the papers on the table, then at the rigid line of her father’s shoulders.
"Is it about the trial, Dad?" she asked.
Julien looked at her, his protective instincts instantly screaming at him to lie, to tell her it was just a tax bill, to shield her from the legal gears that were preparing to grind her down again. But he remembered Dr. Girard’s advice: “Lies create a shifting floor, Julien. She needs to know the ground beneath her is solid, even if it’s rocky.”
"Yes, sweetheart," Julien said, pulling out the chair next to him.
"The judges want us to come back to Clermont-Ferrand next month. They need us to tell the truth about what Marc did, so the jury can ensure he stays in prison forever. Marc’s lawyers are going to ask questions. They’re going to try to say that you made up the story about the cage."
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Chloé walked over, climbing into the chair, her small fingers smoothing down the worn ears of the stuffed rabbit. She looked at the official court seal on the paper, her face going remarkably still.
"I still have the mark on my knee from where the metal wire tore my skin when I tried to reach the water bottle, Dad," she said, her voice holding a sudden, chilling maturity that made Julien’s throat tighten. "I didn't make up the wire. I didn't make up the smell of the pool. I’ll tell the judge. I’m not afraid of Marc’s lawyers. I’m only afraid that if I don't speak, the jury will look away like the police did the first time."
