Let's be honest for two minutes. Technically, I became a killer.
It's a title with some punch on a résumé, right next to "Proficient in Microsoft Office" and "English: read, written, spoken." Except in my case it's more like: "Involuntary manslaughter: experienced, endured, not processing it."
The worst part is I don't even get that thrill of transgression. I don't feel like Dexter or Joe Goldberg. I just feel like a guy who dropped his phone and—through an ironic ricochet—cleansed the region of one of its worst predators.
But don't get it twisted: I don't have any budding guilt. Why would I? I did absolutely nothing wrong. I lost my balance, I bumped into a guy who turned out to be a monster, and the laws of physics did the rest. You don't blame the apple for cracking Newton's skull open, do you? Well, okay—this wasn't an apple. It was my ass. But the principle stands.
No. The real tragedy here isn't Jean-Pierre's death.
It's the logistics.
Because yes, my relationship with Zoé did not survive her dad's fall. And before you picture some heartbreaking breakup scene in the rain because of my secret, stop right there—this is not what happened. Zoé never knew I was the engine behind her father's cranial defenestration.
The problem is: the media.
When the most respected local notable turns out to be a serial killer with a taste for secret rooms, the family doesn't exactly stick around to answer BFM TV interviews. Between journalists harassing them, neighbors throwing rocks, and the police combing through every square centimeter of their lives, Zoé and her mother broke. They had to move abroad, change their names, evaporate into the wild under new identities just to hope for a sliver of peace.
And that's how, with one badly calibrated hip thrust, I lost my only real social achievement. Zoé was my living proof that I could be normal. Without her, I'm just a lonely law student who talks to his own shadow. Thanks, Jean-Pierre. Not only were you garbage, you also ruined my love life through pure post-mortem selfishness.
Worse: we lived together in an apartment funded by Beau-Papa's "generosity." Without the financing of the Predator of the Plains, I had to pack up in a hurry.
So there I was—homeless, or almost—hunting for a new roof on a broke-student budget, with a reputation as "the poor boyfriend from the tragedy" glued to my skin. And that's where, my friends, today's story begins.
Because as they say in law: Nemo auditur propriam turpitudinem allegans (no one can rely on their own wrongdoing). In my case it's more like: When you change apartments, you change victims.
The move was a trial by strength, sweat, and bad faith. I'd managed to convince three friends from uni—Thomas, Sarah, and Lucas—to help me in exchange for lukewarm pizza and bottom-shelf beer. Thomas is the professional complainer; Sarah is the only one with organizational skills; and Lucas is the guy who carries a five-kilo box and then takes a twenty-minute break to recover.
My new place was... let's say it had "character." That was a polite euphemism for: the elevator has been broken since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Fourth floor of an old building, the whole "mutual aid and solidarity" vibe had been replaced with muffled insults directed at 1960s urban planning.
"Eliot, seriously," Thomas wheezed, collapsing onto a duffel bag in the middle of the living room, "next time you move, you only call me for the housewarming. Your books weigh as much as a corpse."
"Terrible choice of words, Thomas," I muttered, wiping sweat off my forehead. "Really terrible."
The place was... modest. Twenty square meters where the kitchenette faced the bed, with a window looking onto an inner courtyard as cheerful as a prison visiting room. But for a broke student whose last guarantor was a serial killer, it was luxury.
That's when we heard three timid little knocks on the door we'd left half open.
"Is it the building manager again about the badly parked truck?" Lucas grumbled, hauling himself up.
It wasn't the building manager.
A tiny woman, barely taller than three potatoes stacked on top of each other, appeared in the doorway. She wore a bubblegum-pink wool cardigan, half-moon glasses dangling from a gold chain, and a silver tray loaded with little golden pastries. The smell of melted butter and cinnamon instantly flooded the room, masking the odor of male sweat.
"Oh, hello my children!" she chirped in a voice that sounded like a Christmas chime. "Am I disturbing your efforts?"
We all froze. It looked like an illustration from a Grimm fairy tale had wandered onto a construction site.
"Not at all, ma'am," Sarah said, rushing forward to help. "Please, come in!"
"You're very kind, my dear. I'm Dolores, your neighbor across the hall. I heard all this commotion and thought a vigorous young man and his charming friends might need a little comfort."
She set the tray on my only unopened box (the one marked "Kitchen / Urgent"). Lucas was already eyeing a shortbread.
"They're still warm," she added, giving Lucas a mischievous wink. "Help yourselves—don't be shy!"
Lucas didn't need to be told twice. He took a bite and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
"Oh my God... Eliot, don't change a thing—we're staying here all night if we have to. Ma'am, you are an angel sent from heaven."
Dolores laughed, a delicate pearly laugh like it came straight out of a music box.
"Call me Dolores, my boy. At my age, 'ma'am' sounds a bit much, don't you think? So—you're moving in here, little Eliot?"
"That's right, Dolores. Sorry for the noise—we're trying to be quick."
"Oh, don't worry about me. Silence has been my only companion for so long. These little sounds of life warm my heart."
She sat on the edge of a chair Thomas had just assembled, hands neatly folded over her floral apron.
"Do you live alone?" Sarah asked, softened by the old woman's fragility.
"Oh yes, my dear. Since the end of the war, my family is nothing but a memory. We had to flee, you know... times were so hard. I lost my brothers, my parents... all I have left are my recipes and my memories. But I don't complain! The good Lord left me here to watch over this landing, I suppose."
Her washed-out blue eyes went distant for a moment, as if she were watching a black-and-white film behind us.
"You must've seen some things," Thomas said, suddenly respectful.
"Far too many, my big one. But today, the world is so beautiful, isn't it? Seeing young people like you help one another—it makes me feel as if the horrors of the past are finally buried."
She turned to me and took my hand. Her skin was thin as tissue paper, but strangely cold.
"I'm so glad it's you, my neighbor, Eliot. You seem like a... special boy."
At that exact moment, I felt a bead of icy sweat slide down my spine. It wasn't exhaustion. It wasn't stress. It was that electric prickling—like a static shock from the base of your skull—that tells you something is off.
Calm down, Eliot, I told myself. She's a ninety-year-old grandma. She lost her family. She brought you cookies.
I tried to shake the feeling with a toss of my head, but the shiver stayed there, curled in the shadow at the back of my neck.
"A special boy," Dolores repeated, patting my hand with an affection that felt almost smothering. "I can see it in your eyes, Eliot. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. That's what pure hearts do, you know."
Thomas, mouth full of shortbread, couldn't help himself.
"Pure hearts, I don't know about that, Dolores, but he mostly carries the weight of twenty boxes of constitutional law. That builds character!"
Everyone laughed. Even me—I forced a tiny twitch of a smile. But inside, it was a storm. Why was my neck burning like this? Why did I get that "déjà vu" feeling when I'd never met her before?
"Oh! Future lawyers!" the old lady marveled, hands clasped. "How wonderful. Protecting justice, maintaining order... it's so important. My late husband always used to say: 'Without a solid structure, man is just a lost animal.'"
"He was in the police?" Sarah asked, increasingly charmed by this grandmother who seemed to step out of an old black-and-white movie.
"Something like that, my dear. He loved discipline. Rigor. We had to flee Germany in 1945, you know. A terrible journey... We lost everything. My brothers, my parents, my homeland. We arrived here with nothing—just our memories and the desire to start again from zero, far from hatred."
She pulled a little lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed delicately at the corner of her eye. The tragedy was so perfectly staged that even Thomas, usually as sensitive as a prison door, got a lump in his throat.
"You must have suffered," Sarah sighed, stroking her shoulder.
"Suffering forges the soul," Dolores replied with regal dignity. "But today, I'm at peace. I garden a little, I cook a lot... and I watch over my neighbors. You know, Eliot, the previous tenant was a very noisy man. Not very... orderly. But you—I can tell we're going to be very good friends."
She stood then, a little stiff but graceful.
"I'll let you finish. Young people need energy. If you need anything—a cup of sugar, a grandmother's advice, or just a bit of company—my door is the one right across. Don't knock too hard; my heart is as old as my porcelain!"
We walked her back onto the landing like she was made of crystal. Once her door closed, Lucas collapsed onto the couch (well—onto the box that served as a couch).
"Dude, you hit the jackpot," he exclaimed. "A neighbor who cooks like a chef and is softer than a cashmere throw. Why do I only get neighbors who play metal at 3 a.m.?"
"She's adorable," Sarah agreed. "Did you see her eyes? She looks like she couldn't hurt a fly."
"Yeah... adorable," I murmured, vigorously massaging the back of my neck.
"What's wrong, Eliot?" Thomas snorted. "Your bargain-bin psychic visions again?"
"No, no. It's just... fatigue. You're right. She's perfect. Maybe too perfect."
I stared at the tray of shortbread. They were flawless. Perfectly golden. And yet, in my mind, a small voice whispered that "Saint" Jean-Pierre had looked like an angel too—right up until his neck went crack.
I promised myself I'd make an effort. For once, I would be an exemplary neighbor. I would return her kindness. I wasn't a monster, after all. I was just a guy with a bad center of gravity.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'll bake her a cake. Something simple. To thank her for being the only normal person in this world of lunatics.
That was my first red flag: ignoring my instinct in order to be polite. A mistake that, as you're about to see, would turn out to be... strikingly fatal.
The next morning, the apartment still looked like a battlefield after a cavalry charge, but one fixed idea marched through my skull: the redemption cake.
I couldn't stay with that feeling of unease. For once, I was going to prove to the universe—and to my neck, which refused to calm down—that I could be an agent of good. The ideal son-in-law, version 2.0, minus the skeletons in the basement.
"Let's keep it simple," I murmured, rummaging through the only unpacked "Kitchen" box. "Yogurt cake. The most basic of basics. Impossible to mess up—even for a guy who technically has a history of demolishing notaries."
I got to work in my two-square-meter kitchenette. Flour, sugar, eggs... I almost felt like a cooking manga character, determination aura blazing around me. But my brain—that traitor—couldn't stop revising my class on criminal liability for negligence.
Article 221-6 of the Penal Code: The act of causing... through clumsiness, imprudence, inattention, negligence, or breach of a duty of care...
"Shut up," I told myself, cracking an egg. "It's just a cake, not an indictment."
That's when the drama tied its knot, right there in the chaos of my move. On my crowded counter were two amber glass bottles with no label (thanks, Mom, for your "artisanal" mystery flasks recovered during the last decluttering). In my mind, the small bottle on the left was Madagascar vanilla extract—the thing that would make my cake taste like paradise.
I poured a generous amount. Very generous. So the little lady really feels how much I appreciate her, I thought, smiling like an idiot.
The cake baked. It smelled good. It looked like a champion. I unmolded it, dusted it with powdered sugar for the "pro" effect, and went to knock on Dolores's door.
No answer.
"She must be at her knitting club," I told myself.
So I placed the dish on her doormat with a note: For the best neighbor on the landing. Thank you for the shortbread! — Eliot (Apt 42).
The shock...
Two hours later, as I tried to understand Kelsen's hierarchy of norms, a dull thud came from the hallway. A sound of struggle—of choking.
I rushed out. Dolores's door was half open. The cake was on her coffee table, with one slice missing. One small slice.
And Dolores... oh God. Dolores.
She didn't look like yesterday's cookie grandma anymore. She was swollen. Like—really swollen. Her cheeks were ballooned, her eyes reduced to two terrified slits, and her skin had gone a purplish color that had nothing to do with "bubblegum pink." A horrible wheeze escaped her, her hands clawing at the air for oxygen.
"Dolores! What's—?"
I looked at the cake. I looked at my hands. And then—the flash. The smell.
It wasn't vanilla.
It was oil.
Peanut oil.
The anaphylactic shock was violently swift. By the time I grabbed my phone to call emergency services, she had one last spasm. Her lungs gave up with a final rasp, and she collapsed onto her floral couch.
Dead.
I stood there, phone in hand, the dialing tone echoing into emptiness.
Again.
The thought hit me like an anvil in Minecraft. I had killed someone again. And this time it wasn't an accidental fall—it was an act of kindness turned into a chemical weapon. I was officially the worst neighbor in the history of humanity. My panic attack hit the stratosphere: I was going to end up in prison, they'd call me "The Death Pastry Chef," I'd never become a lawyer—I'd just be a pariah who kills old ladies with yogurt and incompetence.
Adrenaline is a powerful drug, but fear of ending up in an orange jumpsuit at Fleury-Mérogis is an even better engine. Before the paramedics even arrived, my future-lawyer brain switched into Evidence Erasure Mode.
In one quick motion, I ripped up the note I'd left on the dish. For the best neighbor on the landing. Signed: Eliot. If that paper stayed, it was my one-way ticket to an involuntary manslaughter conviction. I shoved it into my pocket, smoothed my hair, and put on my best voice of young man traumatized by discovering a body.
To my immense relief, the investigation was disarmingly brief.
For the doctors and the police, the case was clear: Dolores, 92, had died from a sudden allergy. The cake? A domestic accident.
They concluded she must have mixed up ingredients herself—or there'd been cross-contamination in her kitchen. No one could imagine that the kid from 42, who'd moved in the day before, had turned dessert into a biological weapon. I wasn't a suspect; I was the "poor soul" who found the tragedy. Another trauma for little Eliot. The officers even patted my shoulder and told me to get some rest.
But the real shock came two days later, when distant heirs (or rather, the State, since she had no one) started clearing her apartment for inventory.
I was leaving for class when I saw two municipal police officers and a notary (another one...) come out of Dolores's place with livid faces. Behind them, movers carried objects you usually only see in late-night documentaries on Arte.
"This can't be real," one officer was muttering. "She lived on this?"
My heart pounding, I edged closer. Through the open door, I saw what had been hidden behind the "sweet" Dolores's bookcase.
A hatch.
A real wall safe disguised inside the apartment.
Inside, it wasn't grandchildren photos or half-finished knitting.
It was the jackpot of evil.
Gold bars stamped with the imperial eagle. Stacks of yellowed documents proving she hadn't been a victim of the war at all, but a major player. Dolores—real name Hildegarde von Schmettau—was a former camp guard, a high-ranking Nazi who vanished in 1945 with part of her division's war treasure. Granny apparently had a very... personal nostalgia for the Third Reich.
In her vaults they found perfectly pressed SS uniforms, as if she'd been waiting for a "return" that never came—and above all, regular correspondence with other former dignitaries hiding in South America. "Cookie Grandma" had been secretly funding neo-Nazi groups for forty years with the victims' gold.
I stood frozen on the landing. That chill at the back of my neck? It wasn't a draft.
It was my radar screaming crimes against humanity.
That same evening, headlines flooded social media:
"The Nazi of the 4th Floor: A fugitive from the shadows caught by anaphylactic shock."
I sat on my bed, a stale piece of yogurt cake in my hand. I had killed a war criminal with peanut oil.
The universe had a truly—truly—specific sense of humor.
Cause of death: sudden anaphylactic shock (tactical pastry).
Red flag for a killer: not telling your neighbor about your allergies... or being a first-class fascist. Either way, the ending is always tragic.
End of Chapter 2.