The following days, I try to forget.
I try to file that conversation away in some corner of my mind the place where I put things it's safer not to touch.
But every time I think about it, Noah's words come back:
"I was the one driving."
On Monday, I go to work earlier than usual.
I apply makeup automatically, listen to Mila talk about an impossible client, and smile at the right moments without really hearing.
She eventually sets her coffee down and stares at me.
"You didn't sleep at all."
"Is it that obvious?"
"You look like you shot a sad music video."
I laugh weakly.
"He told me everything. Clara, the accident, all of it."
"And you believe him?"
I look up, startled.
"What?"
"Léna, do you know how many times I've heard guys say 'it's complicated' before pulling out the tragedy card?"
I shake my head.
"No. This was real. He wasn't performing."
"Maybe. But you don't know the whole story."
That evening, Mila comes over again with her laptop.
"Okay. I looked."
"Mila, stop…"
"No. Listen."
She turns the screen toward me.
A news article from a local paper.
"Accident at Canal Saint-Martin: 22-year-old woman dies at the scene."
Date: three years ago.
Name: Clara Durand.
My throat tightens.
"It's her."
"Look at the rest," Mila says softly.
I read:
"The driver, a 20-year-old man, survived with minor injuries. He was questioned by the police before being released. No charges filed."
"Released?" I whisper.
"Yeah. And his name isn't mentioned."
I slide back in my chair.
"You think he did something?"
"I don't know. But it's suspicious. No follow-up investigation, nothing. Like it was buried."
Mila closes the laptop gently.
"Léna… you need to be careful."
Night falls.
I can't read. I can't sleep.
On my phone, the conversation with Noah stays open.
Not a word from him since that night.
I finally type:
"I saw the article."
No answer.
I hate this silence.
I hate it as much as the expectation it creates.
The next morning, Mila texts me at six a.m.:
"Come. Urgent."
I jump out of bed, throw on a sweater, rush to her place.
When she opens the door, she's holding her laptop like a weapon.
"Look at this."
On the screen, an old photo from a neighborhood blog:
Noah Léger, 20, amateur photographer, present at the accident scene.
I recognize his face instantly younger, but him.
Except one detail freezes my blood:
In the background, next to him, another boy.
Same age.
Same face, almost…
An uncanny resemblance.
"That's not possible," I whisper.
Mila zooms in.
"Two Noahs? No. Maybe a brother? A twin?"
I struggle to breathe.
"He never mentioned family."
"Obviously. And look at the caption:"
"The two young men reportedly left the scene before the authorities arrived."
I sit down. The floor shifts under my feet.
"Mila… what if he wasn't the one driving?"
"Or if he was protecting someone."
Silence falls again.
Fear swells in my chest dense, cold.
Everything I thought I knew starts to crack.
Later in the day, I finally receive a message.
"We need to talk. Not here."
"Where?"
"My studio. 9 p.m. I'll send the address."
I show the message to Mila.
"I'm going."
"You're joking. You're not going alone after what we found!"
"That's exactly why I have to go. I want to understand."
"Léna…"
"If I don't go, I'll never sleep again."
She sighs, defeated.
"Okay. But you share your location. And if I text you 'storm,' you reply 'umbrella.' Got it?"
"Got it."
9 p.m.
The address leads to an old photo studio on a deserted street in the 10th.
I take a deep breath before stepping inside.
The place smells like paint and cold metal.
Pictures everywhere: blurred faces, foggy landscapes, reflections on water.
In the center, Noah stands with his hands in his pockets.
"Thanks for coming," he says quietly.
"I saw the article, Noah. And the photo. There was someone with you. Who is he?"
He stiffens.
His expression shifts darker.
"It's not what you think."
"Then tell me."
He closes his eyes, then murmurs:
"I wasn't the one driving."
The world tightens around me.
"What?"
"It was my brother."