It was only then I realized that Valfiero and Chaudron had fled. I saw the trail of bloody footprints leading to the front door. I raced after them. But too late. The Lorraine-Dietrich was already disappearing down the road.

I came back to the house and looked at Fournier’s lifeless body. I had never intended this. Never wanted it. But it was too late for regrets.

I headed outside behind the house. Found a shovel. Began to dig. I was thankful for the cloudy night. No moon or stars to illuminate my terrible work. I dug and dug. The thought of my son kept me going. When the hole was large enough I used the Persian rug to drag Fournier’s body outside. I went through his pockets. There were over a hundred francs in his billfold.

Then I rolled his body into the grave. Used the rug to cover it. Shoveled dirt back in. Gathered rocks and pebbles and fallen branches and spread them across the new layer of dirt until it was hidden.

I went back inside the house. Cleaned blood from the floor and walls. Washed my hands and cleaned the sink. Then I went through the house searching for the money. I did not think they had time to take it. I searched every drawer in the wooden chest and the bedroom dresser. The closets and under the bed. I slit the mattress. Ransacked the kitchen cabinets. Knocked glasses and fine china to the floor. Moved the potbelly stove and icebox away from the walls. Stomped on the floorboards. But none gave way.

I went outside again. I thought perhaps they had buried the money. I raised the shovel. But where to start? I had no idea. I sagged onto the cold earth and covered my face with my hands. My body drained and exhausted. Simone’s face appeared in my mind. I heard her call my name. But it sounded more pitying than soothing.

I searched Chaudron’s studio. The drawer below the paint table. The one tiny closet. Tested the studio floorboards here as well. Nothing.

I examined his forgeries. A Dutch still life. An English landscape. A medieval Madonna and child. Chaudron had aged and cracked the paint brilliantly. In any other place I would have sworn it was real. I lifted the finished Mona Lisa off its easel. Studied the dreamy landscape. The subtle coloration of the flesh. Lisa del Giocondo’s beautifully articulated hands. I searched the area below them for initials. There were none. Chaudron had not yet painted them in. Unless this was the original!

I turned the painting around. Noted the stains and marks and the Louvre stamp. But I had seen Chaudron ape these elements before and they proved nothing. I sniffed the surface. But the studio reeked of oil and turpentine and it overwhelmed all other odors. I could have tested the painting with turpentine but no longer cared if it was real or not. A thought had taken shape in my mind. A plan. A cultured man like Fournier had fallen for a fake. There would be others. Perhaps this was the original Mona Lisa. Perhaps it was one of Chaudron’s forgeries. It did not matter to me.