Hélène Dubois.
— Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dubois. I’m Marc. Marc Lemaire.
He crouched down, his knees creaking a little, his old jacket squeaking.
— Helene, who left you here?
Shame burned my throat.
— My daughter, I whispered.
I saw his face tighten slightly.
— And… she knows you’re still here?
“She left on purpose,” I replied, staring blankly ahead. “She says I’m too slow, too complicated… too… heavy to bear.”
I don’t know what shocked him more, my words or the way I said them. He stared for a moment at the motorway exit, where my daughter’s car had disappeared. Then he took a deep breath.
— Where do you live, Hélène?
— At the “Les Tilleuls” residence, near Sète. A residence for elderly people.
— That’s quite a long way.
“Seventy kilometers,” he breathed.
