Chapitre 3
"So, what are you proposing? Are you telling me you want me to help you find your true identity?" I asked, keeping the gun aimed at her forehead.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation.
"And why do you think I'd agree to that?" I raised an eyebrow, studying her face for any sign of deceit.
"Because I'm the key to your goal—finding your mother's killer."
Her words sent a chill down my spine. For a second, I forgot to breathe. Could she really hold the answers I'd been chasing for years?
"Why do you think I can't do it myself?" I asked, trying to sound composed even as doubt crept in.
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "Because you've hit dead ends at every turn. And I have the information you need to finally solve the mystery."
Her confidence was unnerving. I hesitated, lowering the gun just a fraction.
Then she added, "And we both know you don't kill. And if you ever try… you'll be killed before you even reach your goal."
That hit deeper than I expected. She was reading me like a damn book, stripping me bare in a way I couldn't do to her. I couldn't even read her eyes—they were too calm, too knowing, too… empty.
If I declined her offer now, she might kill me. And even if she didn't, I'd still be trapped in this same loop of chasing ghosts and dead ends.
Still, something about her presence made my skin crawl.
If I ever had to kill someone, maybe—just maybe—it should be the woman standing right in front of me.
I let the Sig slip into the small of my back and felt the weight of the decision settle like a stone. "D'accord," I said. The word tasted like surrender and strategy at once.
She froze—for a second I thought she'd laugh. Then whatever looked like surprise softened into something like relief. She didn't move to leave or to reach for the watch. She simply watched me lower into the chair at the little dining table, the lamplight throwing half her face into shadow.
"What?" I asked, because someone had to break the silence and because I wanted to see how she'd play this now that I'd given in.
She tipped her head, considering me like a puzzle she didn't know whether she wanted to solve. "You chose quickly," she said at last. "Most people take longer, or they try to bargain."
"Didn't feel like bargaining," I muttered.
''You are thinking I might trick you to kill you? ''She asks again and sits in the seat in front of me and puts down the paper bag she was carrying that I just noticed now.
"Nah," I said with a bored face. "If you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't have saved me from that lunatic kid back in the cafe."
My fingers kept worrying the pendant at my throat. "So tell me, what are your conditions? Or do we just pair up and hope for the best?"
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Conditions," she repeated, as if sampling the word. "Fine. First: no cops. No one brings uniforms near my business.
''Why would I get involved if they also arrest me if they see me? ''I answered boredly.
''Second: you give me access to anything you've got on this case and the people around you. '' she continued.
"I am alone; I have nobody, as the murderer has blown my house away," I said again boredly.
Her eyes showed an emotion when I said that. Is she annoyed or something? I bet this woman is fun to tease. I bit my lower lip thinking that.
''Third: we go after the same leads together—your files, my contacts. We work in the open for a day, then vanish. No solo moves."
I let that sit. Her terms were blunt and pragmatic. No romance, no heroics—a partnership by necessity.
"And you?" I asked. "What do you give me in return besides more questions?"
"I am still thinking about it." She nodded.
She reached into her coat and produced a thin envelope, edges worn. Inside were photocopies of documents—names, dates, and a grainy photograph of a woman I recognized from a case file I'd only ever seen in black-and-white: a shoulder-length silhouette and a scar on the jaw. At the bottom of one page, a stamped line: Opération TOP—202*.
She pushed the papers across the table. "Le nom 'Top' appears here," she said quietly. "I woke with these in a drawer and this." She flipped the pocket watch open so the melody leaked into the small room again. "I don't remember being involved in whatever this was. But the puzzle pieces are on my hands now. Maybe together we can put them in order."
I picked up the photocopies, my thumb tracing the blurred face. My heartbeat stuttered. Levi's case. The files I'd been refused access to. The one name that had haunted the margins of every dossier.
"Fine," I said finally. "We play by your rules for now. But one false move—one lie—and this truce dies. Compris?"
She nodded, the motion small and oddly graceful. "Compris." Then, before either of us could overthink it, she closed the watch. The melody stopped. Outside, rain made its own rhythm against the window.
We were a terrible team on paper. Maybe we'd be a good one in practice. Or maybe we'd die trying. Either way, the first move had been made.
''And one more thing,'' she said.
''Hmm?''I lift my head as I wait for her next word.
''I have this anonymous contractor.They are the one sending me info's and targets.And also supply of ammo and money'' she revealed.
My brows crease at her revelation. "Are you saying you are still killing people and following orders from someone?
Her lips twitched, not quite a smirk. "Technically, oui," she said, voice calm—too calm. "But only when the job makes sense… or when saying non would get me killed."
I felt my stomach tighten. "You can't just casually say that like it's normal, mon Dieu. You're still killing people on someone's command?"
She shrugged, leaning against the counter like we were discussing the weather. "You think the world stops spinning because I quit? It doesn't work that way, chérie. Someone always owns your shadow. I just choose who gets to rent mine."
"Do you even hear yourself?" I snapped. "That's not choosing—that's surviving."
Her eyes flicked up, sharp and cold. "And what do you think you're doing, Vionne? Playing detective, chasing ghosts for eleven years? We're both surviving—just on different sides of the gun."
I stared at her, speechless for a moment. There was no guilt in her tone, no pride either—just truth, bitter and flat.
"So, what," I finally said, voice low, "you're saying this mysterious contractor feeds you missions, and you just—follow?"
She met my gaze. "Not just follow. I trade. They give me targets, I give them results. In return, I get crumbs of information about who I was before… before I became this."
Her hand brushed against the pocket watch, the faint metallic click echoing between us. "And one of those crumbs," she added softly, "led me to you."
The room fell silent again. I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator and the slow tick of the clock on the wall.
I swallowed hard. "You realize what you're saying makes me your next target, right?"
She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "If you were, ma belle Vionne, you'd already be dead."
The way she said it—soft, almost fond—sent a shiver crawling down my spine.
I let the words fall like a stone and watched for the splash.
"Si c'est le prix," I said slowly, "alors d'accord—à une condition." I kept my voice soft but steady, the promise already tasting like iron. "When the time comes that I become your target, let me be the one to kill you."
She blinked, just once. For a heartbeat there was nothing—then the ghost of a smile, almost amused, flickered across her face. "Cold," she murmured. "Very cold, Vionne. But fair." She folded her hands as if we were signing a contract over coffee and not bargaining with lives.
I shoved my chin at her. "Don't make this sentimental. It's a deal for survival, not for vendettas. You help me get closer to my mother's killers, and I help you chase whatever pieces of your past your contractor feeds you. We do jobs together. We share leads. No cops, no solo runs unless both agree. And when—and only when—I'm the marked one, you let me finish it."
She considered me again, then reached out and tapped the pendant at my throat with two fingers. "Deal. But don't think you'll get the easy shot," she warned. "You'll have to be better than the people who made me what I am." Her dead eyes softened for a fraction, and I realized the threat and the compliment were the same thing.
I slid the Sig back into its holster at my waist and stood. Rain rattled the window like impatient fingers. Outside, Paris kept moving—indifferent, noisy, and cruel. Inside, we were two reluctant allies with a fragile contract and a murder in common.
"Okay," I said, forcing a lightness that didn't exist. "Let's see who the contractor wants us to meet first."
She held my gaze like a dare—cool, unblinking, an accusation folded into a request.
"Promise me," she said, voice low, almost softer than before. "When that day comes, tu ne douteras pas. Tu tires, et c'est fini."
My throat tightened. I could feel the weight of the Sig at my back like a promise waiting to be kept. For a long breath I tasted iron and rain and the small memory of my mother's laugh. Then I let the word out, flat and final.
"Je promets."
She exhaled once, a tiny sound that could have been relief or satisfaction. Her fingers found the pocket watch and rolled it between them, the melody whispering like a wound. "Bien," she said. "Alors on commence."