The money had returned. Like an obstinate tide, the same exact amount had flooded Marina's account again. This time, there was no anonymity. The transfer identifier was clear: C. Durand. Chris.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Paul and Marina stared at the screen, silent. It was no longer an abstract threat, an elusive "they." It was a name. A signature. An admission that burned their eyes.
"Is he mocking us?" Paul murmured, his voice laden with cold anger. "Does he think he can buy silence? That he can settle this like a debt?"
Marina didn't answer. She stared at the name. C. Durand. Three syllables that summed up all her nightmares and, secretly, a part of her most buried desire. It wasn't Léna. It was Chris. Chris knew. Chris was acting.
"This is too much, Marina," Paul declared, stand
