For the first time, she seemed uncertain.
That answered me.
Whatever was about to happen, Thomas had not been told clearly.
Maybe he had guessed.
Maybe he had chosen not to ask.
There are different forms of guilt.
I would learn that later.
At that moment, the distinction meant nothing.
I said, “Claire has copies.”
Élodie’s face hardened.
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?”
“The transfers?”
“The bank knows.”
Her eyes changed.
“The documents?”
“Those too.”
She looked toward the road behind us.
Then down the hill.
I suddenly understood.
Not everything.
Enough.
My hands tightened around the wheelchair rims.
“Take me back to the car.”
Élodie stepped behind me.
For half a second, I thought she would obey.
Then she began pushing.
Downhill.
Slowly at first.
“Élodie.”
No answer.
“Stop.”
The chair accelerated.
I pressed my hands against the rims.
Friction burned through my gloves.
She pushed harder.
“Stop!”
The wheels struck a crack.
I felt her grip the handles.
Then her face appeared beside mine.
Her voice was low.
“You should have let Thomas handle things.”
I turned.
“What are you doing?”
Her eyes were wet.
That is one detail I never expected to remember.
She was crying.
Not sobbing.
Just tears standing in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mum.”
Then she shoved with both hands.
Hard.
The wheelchair shot forward.
For one stunned second, I thought she might grab it again.
She did not.
Gravity took me.
The road tilted downward.
The wheels began humming.
Then rattling.
Then roaring.
“Élodie!”
No answer.
I grabbed both push rims.
The friction was too strong.
My hands jerked away.
The wheelchair was not designed for a descent like that.
I twisted and looked over my shoulder.
She stood at the top of the hill.
Cream-colored coat.
Hands by her sides.
Watching.
She had planned this.
Maybe not for months.
Maybe not even for days.
But she had brought me there because there was no one around.
She had chosen the steep road.
She had pushed.
And now she was waiting for the hill to kill me.
The curve approached.
My mind became extraordinarily clear.
People talk about panic as though it is chaos.
Sometimes it is.
Sometimes fear removes everything unnecessary.
I saw the road.
The stone wall.
The trees.
The right footrest.
The left.
I knew how far I could walk.
I knew how weak my right leg was.
I knew Camille had taught me to lower myself safely when I lost balance.
I knew there was grass along the right side of the road before the curve.
And I knew that if I stayed in the wheelchair, I would die.
I pulled my right foot off the rest.
The chair shook.
My shoe struck the road.
Pain exploded up my leg.
I lifted it again.
Too fast.
I needed slower ground.
There wasn’t any.
The curve was less than fifty meters away.
I released the left armrest.
Reached down.
Pulled my other foot free.
My body pitched forward.
For nearly three years, everyone had told me to be careful.
Don’t fall.
Don’t twist.
Don’t risk reinjury.
Don’t move without support.
Every instinct screamed that standing from a speeding wheelchair was impossible.
But impossible had changed meaning for me.
I leaned forward.
Gripped the armrests.
And pushed.
My legs unfolded.
For one fraction of a second, I was standing.
The world tilted.
The wheelchair shot out beneath me.
I threw myself toward the grassy verge.
My right foot caught.
My knee twisted.
Then the ground hit me.
Shoulder first.
Hip.
Face.
I rolled.
Branches tore at my coat.
Air left my lungs.
I remember dirt in my mouth.
Then I stopped in a shallow ditch behind a wall of dead grass.
The wheelchair continued without me.
I heard it rattling.
Then a metallic crash beyond the curve.
Silence.
I tried to breathe.
Nothing happened.
My chest spasmed.
Then air rushed back painfully.
I tasted blood.
My right knee screamed.
For several seconds, I could not move.
A thought flashed through me.
I survived the chair and broke my spine again.
Then I heard footsteps.
Slow.
Approaching from uphill.
Élodie.
I pressed myself lower into the ditch.
My phone.
The recorder.
I reached inside my coat.
Still there.
The screen had cracked.
But it was lit.
I heard Élodie’s shoes on the road.
She was not running.
That frightened me more than anything.
If she had been panicked, if she had regretted it, she would have rushed toward the curve screaming my name.
Instead she walked.
Checking.
My body shook so badly that dry grass moved around me.
I forced myself still.
Her footsteps stopped.
“Mum?”
The word floated down the road.
No answer.
“Mum?”
A little louder.
Still no answer.
She walked past where I lay.
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