I test the weight of the rifle, then stroke the oiled walnut stock, linger for a moment on the intricate tracery on the barrel. With a click, I open the break-action and load two cartridges. Then I set off down the narrow coastal path.

Some fifty meters along, I come to a barrier with a sign: DANGER—NO ENTRY. The heavy tide last Wednesday must have triggered a rockslide. I duck around the barrier and clamber over the boulders.

The sea air is exhilarating, and the dazzling view that stretches all the way to the Alps reminds me of where I came from. As I scale a steep escarpment, I see the tall, slender figure of Francis’s killer, surrounded by three huge hounds that begin to pad toward me.

I raise the rifle, point the barrel toward my target, peer through the sight. I know I will not get a second chance.

I hear the shot, clear, short, and swift, and suddenly my entire life hits me in the face.

Montaldicio, the rolling hills of Italy, the little school, the village square, the insults, the brutality, the blood, the pride of standing firm, Thomas’s winning grin when he was three years old, the lifetime spent loving someone who was different from other men.

Everything that ever mattered in my life…

16

The Night Still Waits for You

1.

In the raging storm, the streets of Antibes looked as though they had been splattered by some thick, viscous substance a clumsy painter had poured onto his canvas.

It was four a.m. and still raining. I was pacing up and down outside the police station on the avenue des Frères-Olivier. My hair was soaked and rain was seeping under my shirt collar. Cell phone pressed to my ear, I was trying to persuade one of the most prominent lawyers in Nice to represent my father if he was kept in custody.