Read Chapter 34: The Law Firm

The law offices of Roland Petit occupied the top floor of a cream-colored building on the Boulevard du Jeu de Ballon, a stone’s throw from the old city walls. Camille had expected dark wood and leather, the heavy furniture of old money. Instead she found white surfaces, glass walls, and the faint hum of a server room tucked behind a frosted door. Petit himself was younger than she’d imagined—mid-forties, with rimless glasses and the flattened nose of a man who had played too long without a guard.

He gestured them into a conference room where a tablet lay on the table next to a single legal pad. No papers. No files. He clearly didn’t want anything that could be photographed or lifted.

“You’ve come with more than a story, I hope,” Petit said, sitting. “Stories are cheap. The syndicate buys them in bulk.”

Julien set Moreau’s phone on the table. The screen was dark. “He gave us the drive. But he wants immunity before he hands it over. Says he’s not going to prison for men who’d leave him there to rot.”

Antoine, who had been silent since they’d entered, opened his jacket and pulled out a worn envelope. The paper was creased, the corners soft as cloth. He laid it beside the phone. “This is the original investigation summary from Vincent’s death. Sealed by the coroner’s office in Montpellier. I obtained a copy through a contact I should not have asked.”

Petit picked up the envelope, slid out the document, and read. His expression did not change. When he finished, he placed it back precisely on the table.

“This confirms the congenital condition,” he said. “But it doesn’t prove the syndicate was waiting for him to refuse. It proves your son died of natural causes, Monsieur Valois. Nothing more.”

“It proves the official record was truthful,” Antoine said, his voice tight. “Which means the story the club spread—that Vincent was killed by his own recklessness—was a lie designed to protect the betting ring. If I can show the board that Delacroix knew the truth and let the lie stand, his credibility collapses.”

Petit tilted his head. “And your son’s credibility? The one who was rumored to have been paid to keep quiet?”

Julien’s jaw tightened. “I never took a cent.”

“You never took a cent because you never knew about the offer,” Antoine corrected quietly. “I intercepted it. The old coach brought it to me the day after Vincent’s body was found. A man from Marseille, offering to make the problem go away. To ensure you’d have a future in the sport. I told him to get out of my sight and told no one.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press against Camille’s chest. She watched Julien’s hands, the way they gripped the armrest of his chair, knuckles white.

“You let them believe I was bought,” Julien said slowly. “You didn’t clear your own name. You didn’t tell me. You just—took it on yourself.”

“I made a decision,” Antoine said, and for the first time his voice cracked. “The same way you made a decision to marry that woman over my objections. The same way you made a decision to play through injuries you should have let heal. We are not good at asking permission, you and I. We act. Sometimes we’re wrong.”

Julien held his father’s gaze for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a breath. “You were wrong to keep it from me. But you were right to keep them away from me.” He looked to Petit. “We have Moreau’s promise, his phone, and that report. Is that enough?”

Petit tapped the tablet, and a document bloomed on the screen. “It’s not enough to remove Delacroix by legal action. But the club is a commercial entity under French sports law. The board can call a vote of no confidence if presented with evidence of financial malfeasance and conduct that threatens the club’s integrity.” He rotated the tablet to face them. “This is the club’s constitution. I had my assistant pull it this morning. The vote requires a two-thirds majority of the full board, including the president himself—unless the president is the subject of the motion, in which case he may not vote.”

“He has allies on the board,” Julien said. “Three of them. Maybe four.”

“Then we need to make the public story powerful enough that those allies decide their own survival is more important than his gratitude.” Petit stood and walked to the glass wall. “Moreau’s drive goes to a magistrate. That’s the hard evidence. But the drive disappears, or Moreau gets scared, or Delacroix gets to him first—then we’re left with a man’s word against a football president’s power.”

Camille heard what he wasn’t saying. “You’re telling us that Moreau is the liability.”

Petit turned. “I’m telling you that a man who has spent years cooking books is not a reliable instrument of justice.” He looked at Julien. “Does Moreau have leverage on anyone else? Someone above Delacroix?”

Julien shook his head. “He says the syndicate ran through Delacroix. The president was their front man. The money always went through one channel.”

“Then we need to force Moreau to deliver the drive before the meeting, not after. And we need a second source.” Petit’s gaze shifted to Antoine. “You have contacts in the original investigation. Did anyone beside you and the coach see the offer from Marseille?”

Antoine was silent for a moment. Then he said, “The club’s secretary at the time. A woman named Élise Fournier. She took the call when the coach first contacted the man. She retired two years ago and moved to Nice.”

“Can she be trusted?”

“She’s dying of lung disease. She’s got nothing left to be afraid of, and she hates the syndicate as much as I do. I think she’d testify. If you can get to her before Delacroix’s people realize we’re moving.”

Petit made a note. Then he looked at Camille for the first time. “And you. You’re the one with the false credentials.”

Camille’s throat tightened. “That’s not my role in this.”

“It is exactly your role.” Petit’s voice was even. “The board has a legal reason already on file to discredit anything you present. If you stand beside Julien and his father in that meeting, they will attack you first. Your degree is the open wound they’ll press.” He set the tablet down. “We need to neutralize that before the vote. Not to save your job—that’s beyond a legal fix today. But to prevent your presence from contaminating the credibility of the evidence.”

Camille felt the floor tilt. She’d come here as support. As a person who’d been wronged. And now she was being told she was a liability again.

Julien turned to her. “He’s wrong about you being a liability.” His voice was quiet but urgent. “But he’s right about how they’ll use it. Camille, if you walk into that room with a story about rehabilitation and a plan to go back to school, you take away their weapon. If you come in as a victim, you hand it to them.”

She understood. “You want me to confess before they can accuse me.”

“I want you to be the one who names it first,” Petit said. “In a room full of people who have seen Delacroix’s version of the story. The board will trust the person who admits her mistake over the person who gets caught six months later. It’s not fair, but it’s human.”

Camille stared at the table. She thought of the vineyard, of the quiet afternoons in the treatment room, of the bruised and bleeding body she’d helped piece back together week after week. She thought of the woman she had pretended to be and the woman she might yet become.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll speak first. I’ll tell them the truth.” She looked up at Julien. “But you’d better have a job for me waiting when this is over. Because I’m not doing it for the board. I’m doing it for the team you promised me.”

Julien’s mouth softened into something near a smile. “The new president will need a physiotherapist with a legitimate degree. You’ll have to get it first.”

“Then we’d better win this.” She stood, turning to Petit. “Set the meeting. I’ll write my confession.”

The lawyer nodded and reached for his phone. “Forty-eight hours. After that, Delacroix will have heard about Moreau’s silence, and the window closes.”

They filed out into the corridor, and as the elevator doors slid shut, Antoine’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his face drained of color.

“They’ve taken Élise into questioning,” he said. “Interpol flagged her account this morning. Someone tipped them to the withdrawal she made three days ago.” He looked up. “Delacroix moves fast. Faster than we planned.”