Her gaze stopped at the ground-floor window of the building across the road. It was wide open. Normally, all the windows in that house were covered with shutters. This was the first time she had seen any sign of life in the run-down property. The dark hole in the wall seemed to zoom in on her like a probing eye.

Her fingers started tingling, and she felt her pulse throb in her ears.

Is it him? Have they found me?

She stayed hidden behind the shutters until she’d gotten her breathing back under control. Then she nodded in an effort to reassure herself. There was no one down there. No one was hiding in the shadows.

In fact, very few people frequented Rue des Trois Chapons. The small street ran from the church on the square to the town’s high street and was winding and narrow. You could touch the cobblestone houses on both sides by simply extending your arms. At street level, a sweet stench revealed that stray cats sought refuge there at night. They’d lurch and squeal pitifully in their search for company. But Anna rarely saw any people here. Not in this alleyway.

She closed the window and walked naked up the uneven stone steps. On the rooftop terrace she turned on the water hose, and it started wriggling on the tiles. She picked it up and washed herself in the spray. The cold water hurt, her body still warm from sleep, but she didn’t flinch.

She brushed off the water and raked her fingers through her wet hair. She let her fingertips sink into her hollow cheeks and studied her reflection in the window of the terrace door. She had lost weight. Not much, no more than maybe three or four pounds, but her breasts were smaller, her arms lean and her face gaunt. She couldn’t decide what she looked like more: an overgrown child or an old woman. Both made her stomach turn.

She put on a jersey dress and a pair of espadrilles and walked downstairs to the kitchen, where she found a lump of baguette and a jar of fig jam. She ate by the open window and listened to the clatter of stalls being assembled on the market square.

Yesterday, she had sent the letter.

She had made the three-hour drive to Cannes, where she’d first picked up the FedEx package at La Poste on Rue de Mimont. Back in the car, she had ripped it open and made sure the money was inside. Then she’d popped the letter into the post box outside the post office and driven back to Rue des Trois Chapons.

In a few days, she would send another letter. And then another.

In the meantime, all she could do was wait. And pray.