Free The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière Page B

get rid of the housekeeper. She would get back to that later. For now, there was an important matter to resolve: to learn about the Desmoulins family. She had to get to the bottom of the story of this child who doesn’t exist: why is he not in school, and why does his sister deny his existence while still putting him in her drawings?
    “You’re still seeing Dr. Mamnoue on Wednesdays?” asked Martin.
    “Of course.”
    “How’s it going?”
    Madame Préau straightened, taking on the air of a circumspect headmistress.
    “Well, we discuss many different subjects. The lamentable state of public services in the region, for example. Abolishing the business tax represented a loss of three hundred million euros in taxes for Seine-Saint-Denis. And, for now, there is still no compensatory allowance from the state. I am very worried for the future of corporate taxpayers. Be that as it may, you can call him if you want.”
    “I will call him. Are you sure you’re taking your sleeping pills?”
    “Yes, yes, don’t worry. All is well. And my blood pressure is good. So long as I don’t eat too much of this food tainted with MSG, I shouldn’t fade away.”
    Despite his age, Martin still needed to be reassured.
    Madame Préau made sure that he was.
    She put a hand on his left arm and smiled tenderly.
    She did not speak of Bastien, or of the burst ball in her garden.

25
     
    After he dropped her off, Madame Préau waved at her son from the front porch. The old woman did not open the door. She went back down the steps and closed the gate behind her. A moment later, she was sitting in the number 229 bus. Madame Préau got off a few steps from 4a Rue Alsace-Lorraine. She was received immediately by Ms. Polin, the social worker on duty, a woman in her fifties with her skin still tanned from her holidays; an alleged abuse case was a priority.
    On the walls of the office where they sat, posters aimed at a public in trouble set the tone for the interview: sordid affairs were handled here. On one of the posters, a baby was pictured sitting in a high chair. His terrified eyes reflected the slogan inscribed under his chair:
The only witness to the domestic abuse of women is often two years old.
AIDS, hepatitis B, illiteracy, pedophilia, violence against women—each image was a slap to Madame Préau, helpless in the face of so many evils. Leaning on her handbag as she sat on a chair with a gray faux-leather backrest that dug into her middle, she felt the blood pounding quickly in her veins.
    “Can you tell me more about this child?”
    Name and address of the parents, approximate age and general condition of the boy. Ms. Polin noted the details given by her interviewee carefully on a large notepad. Her right hand slipped nervously onto the page. A pendant that matched a pair of cherry earrings shimmered with her movements.
    “You say he’s not in school?”
    “It seems not. His brother and sister are currently in the Blaise Pascal School. The parents have been living in the area for two years, so the child must have been doing his last year of kindergarten in the same school. But the school headmistress assured me that Laurie and Kévin were the only Desmoulins children to have been registered.”
    “You spoke to the headmistress?”
    “Very briefly.”
    “This doesn’t mean that he hasn’t been in school: perhaps he’s still attending his old school. We would need to know their previous address to check. Have you witnessed any mistreatment of the child?”
    Madame Préau shifted in her seat. The interview was making her uncomfortable.
    “I’ve never really seen him up close.”
    “Do you mean to say that you haven’t met him?”
    Madame Préau crossed knees.
    “No. But I have been watching him playing in the garden every Sunday for months, and the view from my window is unobstructed.”
    Ms. Polin raised an eyebrow.
    “From your window?”
    Madame Préau pulled at the hem of her black skirt. She had the feeling that she had