I simply closed my eyes.
Because in that moment, it wasn’t just evidence of a crime. It was proof that all my grief had been built on a lie. That my prayers, my sleepless nights, my birthday spent talking to a photo… all of this had been made possible by the killer living under my roof.
We went immediately to the Criminal Investigation Department in La Rochelle.
The case was assigned to Captain Claire Delorme, a woman with a piercing gaze and a calm voice. She reviewed the drone footage. She listened to the recording of Valérie telling her accomplice:
“When I get the old lady’s money, it’ll be over.”
Then she read the toxicology report.
Her face hardened.
“We’ll arrest her today.”
I went home before the police.
I locked myself in my room, my hands frozen, listening for Valérie’s footsteps downstairs, the creak of a drawer, the jingle of her bracelets. A woman who still thought she was safe.
An hour later, the doorbell rang.
I heard Captain Delorme’s firm voice in the hallway:
“Valérie Renaud, you’re under arrest for the attempted poisoning of Hélène de Villiers and the attempted murder of Élias de Villiers.”
A scream echoed through the house.
“You’re crazy! My husband is dead!”
I went upstairs, into the hallway.
Two policemen were already holding her hands. Makeup was running down her face. Her eyes were desperately searching for a way out, like those of a cornered animal.
Then she saw me.
And in her eyes there was no longer any charm or gentleness. Only hatred.
“It’s you!” she snapped. “You want to destroy me!”
The captain took out his tablet and played the drone footage.
