Chapter 5: The First Trail

The days went by, in a spiral that escaped me more and more. Every morning, I woke up in Alexandre's apartment, forcing myself to put on his mask, to walk in his footsteps, to become the man I'd barely known. On the surface, I was nothing more than a man trying to survive a world of lies. But deep inside me, a fire burned, an unwavering determination. I had to know. I had to understand.

That morning, I was faced with a dilemma. Clara was away on an errand, and Lucas, her son, was at school. It was the perfect opportunity to dig a little deeper into my brother's affairs, perhaps to find some clues that I'd missed in everyday life. My mind was still swirling around the question that was obsessing me: Who had killed Alexandre? And why had he done it?

I headed for his office, a secluded corner of the apartment where he spent hours working. An orderly, almost clinical office, but I knew that in those papers might lie a truth I was ready to uncover. I was no longer afraid of what I might find. Whatever the price, I had to know.

Rummaging through his drawers, I came across a notebook. It seemed innocuous at first, but something told me it wasn't so. I opened it carefully, making sure that nothing was missing, that no one would suspect what I was doing. Every page contained observations, diagrams, names. Alexandre seemed to be conducting some kind of investigation. Words came up frequently: "Rencontre à minuit", "Réseaux souterrains", "Liaison avec D.".

I froze as I read a name that slapped me in the face: Damien Rousseau. The name wasn't unfamiliar. It was a man I'd seen once, briefly, when we first met. A mysterious, dangerous-looking man. He seemed to avoid direct contact, and my brother seemed to avoid him too. But why did this name appear so often in Alexander's writings?

I flipped quickly through the pages, each word opening new doors for me. Alexandre had indeed had contact with Damien, and not only that, but there seemed to be some tension in these exchanges. Terms like threat and repercussions appeared in the notes. My brother knew something, and it put him in danger. I could feel it in the words scribbled in that notebook.

At one point, I came across a particularly striking page, where Alexandre had noted a rendezvous. It wasn't just a coffee with friends, it was a secret meeting, with a precise location. It was a bar in a part of town I barely knew. The kind of place where you can easily disappear into the night. The note read: "Tomorrow, 10pm. Don't forget".

This appointment seemed to be one of the last leads he'd followed before his death. Maybe it was there that he'd discovered something crucial. Perhaps this meeting with Damien Rousseau had been a point of no return.

I closed the notebook, my mind bubbling. Part of me was satisfied with this discovery, but another knew it was only the beginning. If I wanted to understand, I'd have to follow this trail, and maybe even take risks I hadn't yet imagined.

I made a quick decision: I had to go to that bar. Tonight. It was time to find out what Alexandre was talking about, and why this name, Damien Rousseau, seemed so important. But I had to be careful. If I wanted to be Alexandre in Clara's eyes, I had to take precautions. It wasn't just a question of following a lead. It was about immersing myself in my brother's life, understanding his relationships, his contacts, his way of seeing the world.

Before leaving the apartment, I went to his wardrobe and picked up his black leather coat, the one he often wore, and which I knew to be associated with an image of seriousness and confidence. I had no idea what to expect, but I had to be ready.

The evening came much more quickly than I had imagined. At 9:30 p.m., I got ready and took one last look in the mirror. The face that reflected back at me was no longer quite my brother's. It was a face distorted by necessity, by the weight of lies. It was a face distorted by necessity, by the weight of the lies I was weaving around me. But I had the feeling that a transformation was taking place, as if I were gradually becoming the man I was supposed to be.

I left the apartment with the notebook firmly in my pocket, and made my way to the local bar. The place was remote, almost out of time, tucked away in a dark alley. From the outside, the place looked deserted, but a warm glow emanated from within, inviting those who sought to find themselves there.

I walked through the door. The music was soft, subdued, but the air seemed heavy, laden with secrets. I took a discreet seat at the back of the room, half-hidden behind a column. The bar was almost empty, except for a few regulars talking in hushed tones. And then he arrived.

Damien Rousseau.

I recognized him instantly. He hadn't changed a bit. His dark eyes scanned the room with predatory vigilance, as if waiting for someone. He approached the counter and ordered a drink, without a glance at the rest of the room. He seemed at once out of the world and at the center of it all.

I took a breath and waited. That night, I wasn't there to chat. I wasn't there to be his friend. I was there for one thing only: to get answers.

And I knew that, no matter what it cost, he was going to give it to me.