For five years, I believed that my husband, Julien, obsession with our bathroom was nothing more than a strange habit.
Three times a day — in the morning, in the evening, and before bed — he scrubbed the sink, bathtub, and tiles with an almost unsettling energy. He always refused my help.
— I will take care of it, Élodie. Go get some rest.
Then he would kiss me as if nothing had happened. Sometimes the smell of bleach was so strong that it filled our bedroom. Yet I never asked any questions.
Until the weekend when Sophie, my best friend and a forensic pathologist, came to stay at our house. On Sunday morning, Julien phone rang around 7 a.m. After reading a message, his face became tense.
— An urgent problem at work.
He left immediately, without cleaning the bathroom. Half an hour later, Sophie went upstairs to use it.
A few seconds later, I heard my name.
— Élodie…
Her voice sent chills down my spine.
I found her standing motionless by the door, her face pale, staring at the tiles.
— What is it?
She suddenly grabbed me by the wrist.
— Don touch anything. Step back.
She closed the door with her elbow.
— Did Julien clean in here this morning?
— No. Why?
Sophie took out her phone.
— Call the police.
I thought I had heard her wrong.
— The police? Because of a bathroom?
She looked straight into my eyes.
— Élodie, in my profession, I can recognize certain traces even when someone tries to make them disappear.
My heart stopped. Sophie pointed toward the door behind her.
— Someone regularly cleans blood in this bathroom.
Her words left me completely frozen in place, and what was discovered afterward was simply unbelievable.
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The police arrived less than twenty minutes later. Sophie explained what she had noticed. The officers inspected every corner of the bathroom and used a special product to reveal the invisible traces.
The farther they went, the more serious their faces became.
Under the tile grout, behind the bathtub, and even inside the drain, they found old traces that had been cleaned repeatedly.
I could not understand it.
— But why would Julien do this? I asked, my voice trembling.
The police then searched our house. Inside a locked cabinet, they discovered several bottles of cleaning products, as well as a hidden phone.
It was this phone that revealed the whole truth. Julien had also hidden this phone between the pipes, and every time he retrieved it, he injured himself, forcing him to clean up the traces.
For five years, Julien had been receiving messages from a woman he had known before our marriage. She had been blackmailing him after discovering that he had witnessed a serious accident involving her brother.
But the most disturbing discovery was elsewhere.
The traces found in our bathroom did not come from victims. Julien had repeatedly injured his hands while trying to repair an old pipe contaminated with chemicals, and he panicked every time he saw blood.
