Chapter 4 - THE MAN WITHOUT A FACECamille stood motionless on the sidewalk.
Traffic moved past.
A bus stopped at the curb.
Someone brushed against her shoulder and muttered an apology.
She barely noticed.
“Juliette?”
Static crackled.
“Please tell me where you are.”
The woman on the phone breathed unevenly.
“I can't.”
“Are you inside the foundation?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Somewhere they haven't found me yet.”
Camille closed her eyes.
Hearing her sister's voice was like hearing a stranger speak through a doorway that had been locked her entire life.
She wanted to ask a hundred questions.
What did Juliette look like when she smiled?
Had she been happy?
Who had raised her?
Did she know about Claire?
But there was no time.
“You said Étienne murdered our father.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I found his name.”
“Whose name?”
“Our father's.”
Camille gripped the phone.
“Tell me.”
A noise sounded in the background.
A door closing.
Juliette gasped.
“Not now.”
“Juliette!”
“Find the photograph. The original one.”
“I have it.”
“No. Not the one with his face cut out.”
Camille's pulse quickened.
“Where is the original?”
“Your mother hid it.”
“Where?”
Juliette lowered her voice.
“In the place where she kept the things she couldn't bear to throw away.”
Camille thought of Claire's apartment.
The sewing machine.
The old wooden wardrobe.
The boxes of fabric.
Then she remembered something.
Her mother had kept a locked trunk beneath her bed.
After the funeral, Camille had moved it into storage without opening it.
“Juliette, I think I know.”
“Good.”
“Please don't hang up.”
“I have to.”
“Wait.”
Camille's voice broke.
“Did you know about me?”
Silence.
Then Juliette answered.
“Not until six months ago.”
Camille swallowed.
“And you've been looking for me?”
“Every day.”
The line disconnected.
For a moment, Camille stood with the phone pressed against her ear.
Then she lowered it.
Thomas watched her carefully.
“Was that your sister?”
Camille nodded.
“She said Étienne killed our father.”
Geneviève made a small sound.
Thomas looked toward the foundation.
“Then we need to establish whether she has evidence.”
“She told me to find the original photograph.”
“Where?”
“My mother's storage unit.”
They drove there immediately.
The facility stood on a narrow street near the outskirts of Paris.
Claire had rented the unit for years, keeping old furniture, winter clothes, and belongings she rarely used.
Camille had always assumed it was because her mother hated throwing things away.
Now she wondered whether the storage unit had been another hiding place.
Inside, the air smelled of cardboard and dust.
Camille found the trunk beneath a folded blanket.
It was dark brown, with brass corners and a broken leather handle.
The lock had rusted.
Thomas examined it.
“Do you have the key?”
“No.”
Geneviève looked at the trunk.
“Your mother used to have one like this.”
Camille turned.
“When?”
“When she was a teenager. She kept her schoolbooks and letters inside.”
Camille ran her fingers over the wood.
A faint scratch marked the lid.
Three small lines.
Claire had once told her that the marks were made by a cat.
Camille had believed her.
Now she wasn't sure.
Thomas opened the lock with a small tool from his briefcase.
Inside were old dresses, a wool scarf, several notebooks, and a wooden jewelry box.
Camille searched carefully.
At the bottom, beneath a folded blue coat, she found a sealed envelope.
The handwriting was Claire's.
For the daughter who comes looking.
Camille stared at the words.
Not Camille.
Not Juliette.
The daughter.
As though Claire had never known which child would find it first.
Camille opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
The original.
Claire stood outside a small country house, visibly pregnant.
Beside her was the man whose face had been removed from the other picture.
He was younger than Étienne.
Perhaps thirty.
Dark blond hair.
Gentle eyes.
A slightly crooked smile.
His hand rested against Claire's stomach.
On the back, Claire had written:
Lucien Moreau. The man who loved us before the world taught us fear.
Camille read the name aloud.
Geneviève covered her mouth.
“Lucien.”
Camille looked up.
“You knew him?”
Geneviève nodded.
“He was a physician.”
“Did he work with Étienne?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
Geneviève looked at the photograph.
“He disappeared in November 1996.”
Camille felt cold.
“One month after we were born.”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone investigate?”
“Of course. But there was no body. No witness. No evidence of violence.”
Thomas took out his phone.
“I'll check the records.”
Camille continued searching.
Inside the envelope was another document.
A photocopy of a marriage certificate.
Élise Laurent.
Lucien Moreau.
Married March 14, 1995.
Camille's heart twisted.
Her parents had been married.
Claire had never told her.
She had grown up believing her father abandoned them before she was born.
All those childhood nights spent wondering why he hadn't wanted her.
All those birthdays when she pretended not to notice the empty chair.
The truth had been something entirely different.
“He didn't leave us,” Camille whispered.
Geneviève shook her head.
“No.”
Camille pressed the photograph against her chest.
“He loved us.”
Tears blurred her vision.
For thirty years, she had carried the quiet wound of believing she was unwanted.
Now she was discovering that the man she had imagined abandoning her might have died trying to protect her.
Thomas looked up from his phone.
“I found something.”
Camille wiped her eyes.
“What?”
“Lucien Moreau was declared legally dead in 2004.”
“On what evidence?”
“An unidentified body recovered from the Seine was later associated with his missing-person case.”
Camille frowned.
“Associated?”
“Not conclusively identified.”
Geneviève looked at Thomas.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the official record may not establish that the body was his.”
Camille stared at the photograph.
“Then he could still be alive?”
Thomas didn't answer immediately.
“It's possible.”
A faint sound came from outside the storage unit.
Footsteps.
Then the metallic click of a door.
Thomas turned.
“Did you tell anyone we were coming here?”
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
The lights went out.
The room plunged into darkness.
A man's voice came from the corridor.
“Camille Martin?”
Thomas moved toward the door.
“Who's there?”
The voice answered calmly.
“Someone who knew your father.”
Camille held her breath.
Then the stranger said something that made her blood run cold.
“Lucien Moreau didn't die in 1996.”
May you like
A pause.
“He died three days ago.”
Related Stories
