Then I went straight to the window.
The mosquito net was there.
The window is closed.
But when I raised the blinds… my breath caught in my throat.
Outside, in the driveway, Antoine's car — the one that was supposed to take him to the airport — was still there.
He had never left.
It was parked perfectly straight, as always.
As if nothing had happened.
Camille put a hand to her mouth to stifle a noise.
Silent tears streamed down her cheeks.
— Mom… she managed, without a voice.
I placed a finger on my lips.
My brain was reviewing all the options: the back door, the garage, the windows.
But the alarm system emitted another beep — faint, distant — from the ground floor.
Then another sound.
A mechanical hum.
The garage door.
It was opening.
I approached the bedroom door quietly and pressed my ear against the wood.
Footsteps in the lower corridor.
Slow.
Heavy.
It wasn't Antoine.
His steps were quick, impatient.
These were measured.
Deliberated.
Like someone who knew the house perfectly.
Camille clung to my waist behind me.
She was trembling so badly that her teeth were chattering.
I opened the closet and gently pushed her inside, behind the hanging coats.
"No matter what you hear," I whispered, "don't leave until I say your name. Not 'Mom.' Nothing else. Just your name."
She nodded frantically.
I picked up my phone and climbed onto the bed to get a signal near the window.
A bar appeared.
I dialed 17 and held my breath.
The line passed.
Weak.
Full of crackling noises.
— National Police, what is your emergency?
"We're locked in..." I whispered. "There's someone in my house. My husband... he planned everything. Please..."
A dull thud resounded from below.
Then the unmistakable creaking of the stairs under a weight.
The operator's voice became more strained.
— Madam, please stay on the line. What is your address?
I whispered it, my jaw trembling.
— Please… hurry up.
The stairs creaked again.
