They knocked on Diane's door at eight o'clock.
She opened it in a robe, her auburn hair tousled, a file in one hand—she was already working, even on a Saturday morning. She looked at them. Their faces. The letter in Jimmy's hand. And she understood before they spoke. Diane always understood before anyone spoke—that was what made her a formidable lawyer and a difficult person to love.
“Come in,” she said.
They sat down in the living room. Diane's apartment was like Diane—clean, cold, organized. Law books on the shelves, a gray couch, no photos, no knickknacks. Nothing personal. As if she, too, had never really lived here.
Diane read the letter. Slowly. Twice. Her eyes stopped on the word “Geneva.” She set the letter on the coffee table and looked at Jimmy.
“Geneva,” she said.
“What happened in Geneva, Jimmy?” Tatum asked.
The silence lasted five seconds. Five seconds that weighed ten years. Jimmy looked at Diane. Diane looked at Jimmy. Ten years of silence between them—ten years of things left unsaid, photos in drawers, memories buried without killing them.
“We were together,” Jimmy said. “Ten years ago. Before you, before Besançon, before everything. We were in Geneva for a construction site—a high-rise office building, a major project. And something happened.”
“What?”
Jimmy opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then he looked at Diane, and Diane spoke. Her lawyer's voice—calm, precise, without emotion. The voice she used in court, the one that turned tragedies into facts.
“An accident at the construction site. A construction worker died. A fall—poorly secured scaffolding, a cable that snapped. The worker's name was Karim Bassiri.”
“Bassiri,” Tatum repeated. “Like Nora.”
“Like Nora. Karim was Vanessa's brother. Her half-brother—the same father, different mothers. Vanessa adored him. He was the only member of her family she truly loved.”
Diane stood up. She went to get a glass of water. Not because she was thirsty—because she needed to keep her hands busy.
“Jimmy wasn't responsible,” she said when she came back. “He was the crew foreman, not the safety supervisor. The investigation cleared him. Two judges. Three experts. Jimmy was not at fault. The report concluded that it was equipment failure—the scaffolding was defective, and the supplier was convicted.”
“But Vanessa never accepted that,” Jimmy said.
“No. She thinks I covered for Jimmy because we were together. That justice protected someone guilty. That her brother died because the construction site wasn't safe and Jimmy was running it.”
Tatum looked at Jimmy. Not angrily—with that particular attentiveness of hers, the kind that searched for the truth behind the words.
“Why didn't you ever tell me?”
“Because it was over. The investigation was over, the trial was over, Geneva was over. I left Switzerland, I left Diane, I started over in Besançon. I thought it was buried.”
“Nothing is ever buried,” Diane said. “Vanessa waited ten years. She sent Williams. She sent Nora. She sent the photo. And she has a Plan B—something she's saving for the end.”
“What Plan B?” Tatum asked.
“I don't know exactly. But last night, I heard Nora on the phone with Vanessa. She was talking about documents. Evidence. Something Vanessa had kept since Geneva—a second report, a witness statement, I don't know. Something that could reopen the case.”
“Is that why you went to Vanessa's house last night?” Tatum asked.
Diane hesitated for one second. One single second.
“Yes. I wanted to understand. Vanessa slammed the door in my face. But I know where she lives.”
The silence fell again. Tatum looked at the letter on the table. Then Jimmy. Then Diane. Three people in a cold living room, on a Saturday morning in November, with ten years of truth finally settling between them.
“We have to go see her,” Tatum said.
“Vanessa?” Jimmy asked.
“Vanessa. Now. Before she does something else.”
Diane stood up. She grabbed her keys from the sideboard. She didn't take the time to change—the robe, her tousled hair, her bare feet in loafers. Diane Marchal, a criminal defense lawyer, didn't prepare for battles. She went to them.
“I'll drive,” she said. “I know the address.”
They got into Diane's car. Tatum in front. Jimmy in back. No one spoke. The drive to Vanessa's house took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of silence, truths settling into place, anger rising like a tide.
When they arrived in front of the house—a gray bungalow, shutters closed, a flowerless yard—Diane turned off the engine.
“Together,” she said.
Jimmy nodded. Tatum clutched Nora's letter in her hand. And they walked toward the door.