I got up to leave the room, then immediately turned back to take the maternity-ward photo. I needed it as proof of where I came from. As I picked up the frame, I noticed a small wall safe. The keypad required a six-digit code. My date of birth? I didn’t believe it could be so simple, but it was worth a shot. Sometimes the simplest solution…

With a click, the safe door swung open. It was not very deep. I put my hand inside and took out a pistol. The famous gun Francis hadn’t had time to use the night he was attacked. In a small burlap bag, I found a dozen .38-caliber cartridges. I’d never been fascinated by guns. As a rule, I found them repellent. But I’d had to do some research while writing my novels. I felt the weight of it. It was heavy and compact and looked like an old Smith and Wesson Model 36, the famous Chief’s Special, with its rosewood grip and nickel-plated body.

I slipped five cartridges into the cylinder and tucked it into my belt. I wasn’t sure that I knew how to use it, but I was sure that danger was everywhere. Someone had decided to eliminate all those involved in Vinca’s death. And I was probably next on the list.

As I went back down the stairs, my phone rang. I hesitated. When you get a call at three in the morning and the screen says Private number, it’s never a good thing. Eventually, I picked up.

It was the police. Chief Vincent Debruyne was calling me from the Antibes police station to say that my mother had been found dead and my father was claiming to have killed her.

Annabelle

Antibes, Saturday, May 13, 2017

My name is Annabelle Degalais. I was born in Italy, in a little village in Piedmont, in the mid-1940s. And the following minutes may well be my last.

On December 25 last year, when Francis called me in the dead of night shortly before he died, he had time to say only one thing: Protect Thomas and Maxime.

That night, I realized that the past had come back to haunt us, trailing threats of danger and death. Later, when I read the newspaper account of how Francis had suffered before he died, I knew that this story would end as it had begun—in blood and fear.

For twenty-five years, we had managed to keep the past at bay. To protect our children, we had double-locked every door, ensuring that we had left no trace. Vigilance became second nature, though, over time, the constant suspicion ceases to feel morbid. There were days when the fear that had been gnawing at me for years seemed to fade, and so I lowered my guard. This was a mistake.