Closer.
Then the handle of my bedroom door turned slowly.
As if to test it.
And a man's voice came through the door.
Calm.
Almost soft.
— Mrs. Hale ? This is the maintenance department. Your husband called. He was waiting for me.
Every instinct in my body screamed that this voice was lying.
A maintenance service doesn't come unannounced after a "business trip".
A maintenance service will not come when the wifi is turned off and the locks are activated.
A maintenance department does not test a room's door handle as if it were checking to see if someone is hiding there.
I kept my voice low.
Barely a breath.
— I didn't call any maintenance service.
Silence.
Then the same voice, a little harsher.
— Madam, it's just a quick inspection. Please open the door.
In the closet, Camille let out a small, muffled noise.
I held my breath until silence returned.
The operator whispered into the phone:
— The officers are two minutes away. Can you block the door?
I pulled the chest of drawers out one centimeter.
Slowly.
Then I wedged a chair under the handle.
The handle turned again.
Then he stopped.
Silence.
The man was listening.
Then a new noise.
Metal against metal.
Tools.
A fine scraping along the lock.
He was trying to get in.
My hands were shaking so much that I almost dropped the phone.
"He's forcing the lock," I murmured.
— Remain silent — ordered the operator — Do not confront him.
The scratching stopped abruptly.
Footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Fast.
As if he had heard something outside.
The sirens rose in the distance.
Weak first.
Then getting closer and closer.
A voice shouted from below:
— Police! Open the door!
The house froze.
Then it exploded in motion.
Running footsteps.
A cupboard that slammed shut.
The rear door was vibrating as if someone had pulled it too hard.
The operator said:
— They are here. Stay inside until an officer announces himself.
I remained frozen.
Listening to the chaos below.
Police officers shouting orders.
A man shouting back.
An object that fell with a crash.
Then a heavy impact.
And the metallic click of the handcuffs.
A few moments later, there was a firm knock on my bedroom door.
— Madam — said a woman's voice — this is Officer Moreau . If you are here, give your name.
— Rachel Hale — I replied in a choked voice.
— Rachel — said Officer Moreau firmly — we have the suspect. Open the door slowly.
I pulled the chair out with trembling hands and opened the door.
Two officers were in the corridor.
One of them walked past me towards the closet when she heard a sob.
— Camille — I called, my voice breaking — you can leave now.
The closet door opened.
My daughter stumbled into my arms, sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe.
I squeezed it as if I could glue the pieces back together.
Downstairs, they had pinned him to the floor in the living room.
Handcuffed.
His face was against the carpet.
It wasn't Antoine.
He was a man with work boots, a tool belt, and a fake badge hanging from his belt.
— What… what happened? I murmured.
