"Apart from that, he was cheerful, he liked to joke." Monique Olivier talks about her late husband, Michel Fourniret. She offers the Hauts-de-Seine assizes her lunar face, her receding chin and her pronounced nose, her white hair cut short, her shapeless figure with androgynous roundness. His thin voice escapes from a heavy body; his words are limp, his dodges heartbreaking, his apparent detachment horrifying; Her ellipsis can be heard as much as her inconsistent words, as she is reluctant to finish her sentences.
"I'm going to do my best," she promised. The worst part is that she may be keeping her word. Because even she can't explain why she spent sixteen years alongside the worst serial killer France has known since the Liberation, sharing his life, his bed, his crimes. She's not smart enough to verbalize her motive, though she must have one; not foolish enough - or perverse - to do so, which would put her...
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