“And it’s time for lunch. My father made a salad. Don’t worry, it’s a man salad, with bacon and a poached egg on top.”

“I wasn’t worried. The bacon makes me extra happy, though.”

She surveyed the collection of memorabilia, and her gaze kept going back to the wedding portrait. “We’ll have to talk more later.”

“Why, Madame Adams, is that your way of asking me on a date?”

“My . . . what? No.”

“It is, too, and I accept. Where would you like to go?” He grinned. “Don’t give me that look. You’re in Provence, Camille. Things are going to get romantic whether you like it or not.”

What could be the harm? she asked herself. She was here just for the summer, and he was helping her find out vital information for her father. It seemed silly to be a Sabine about it. “Okay. Surprise me.”

Filled with nervous energy, she hurried through lunch, then went right back to work, digging into a carton labeled linge. True to the label, it was a collection of bed linens, faintly redolent of dried cedar and lavender. Most of the items were brittle and yellowed with age. She set each piece aside, labeling things the way Vivi had instructed.

She came across an old tapestry pillow depicting a tree of life. She held it up for Finn to see. “Antique or knockoff?”

He checked it out. “It’s a beauty. Probably recent, though. Is there a tag inside?”

As she turned the pillow over, it struck her that it didn’t feel like a pillow. The stuffing wasn’t soft enough. And if it had been a proper pillow, wouldn’t the mice have raided the stuffing for their nests, the way they had the other pillows she’d found in the attic?

One side had been loosely sewn up. She carefully unraveled the stitching to reveal a piece of heavy, stiff fabric inside. “I don’t see a tag, but check this out.” Reaching in, she pulled out a folded canvas sack the color of faded wheat. It seemed out of place, somehow. She unfolded the canvas and held it up. There were letters and numbers stenciled in black on the fabric, along with the words SEPT. 1943 (24 FT DIA). AN 6513—1A PARACHUTE. A worn pamphlet fell out of a tuck in the fabric. It was stamped with official markings and the title PARACHUTE LOG RECORD.

“Oh boy,” she said, looking at Finn. The expression on his face was probably a mirror of her own.

“I think we’re onto something,” he said.

Part 4

Bellerive

A photograph is a secret about a secret.
The more it tells you the less you know.

—DIANE ARBUS, AMERICAN PHOTOGRAPHER

Fifteen

May 1944

Ne tirez pas.” Please don’t shoot.

Hank Watkins heard the woman’s words through a haze of pain. Using all his strength to hold his sidearm steady, he sighted down the short barrel of the Colt semiautomatic and aimed for her chest. It was nearly dark, so he would have to take the shot quickly or risk letting her flee. Her short breaths came in audible puffs, like a cornered animal. His finger tensed on the trigger. The gun had a silencer, and with a single pull, he could be alone in the woods again.