All this I had gleaned from the websites of Nice-Matin and Challenges and from an article about the “Macron generation” in Le Monde. Maxime had gone from being a lowly city councilor to joining the party Macron founded and running his regional campaign during the presidential election. Now he was running for a seat in Parliament as a Macron candidate. Although the district of Alpes-Maritimes was historically right-wing, in recent years, residents had consistently voted for centrist, no-nonsense candidates. A year ago, the idea that the locals would shift their political allegiance seemed unthinkable, but it now seemed as though the Macron wave might sweep up everything in its path. It would be a close-run contest, but Maxime looked to have every chance of ousting the incumbent.

3.

When I spotted Maxime, he was outside the old gym chatting to the Dupré sisters. I studied him from afar—the baggy cotton pants, the white shirt, the linen jacket; the tanned, slightly rugged face, the clear-eyed gaze, the sun-bleached hair. Léopoldine and Jessica were hanging on his every word as he tried to convince them that the proposed hike in social security contributions would increase the spending power of average earners.

“Well, look who it is!” Jessica called out when she spotted me. I kissed each of the twins and gave Maxime a man-hug. Maybe my mind was playing tricks, but I thought he still smelled of the coconut hair gel he used to wear when we were at school.

For another five minutes, we had to suffer the twins’ blathering about organizing the Alumni Prom, among other things. At some point, Léopoldine told me how much she adored my novels, “especially the Trilogy of Evil series.”

“I rather enjoyed it myself,” I said, “even if I didn’t write it. But I’ll pass on your comments to my friend Chattam.”

Léopoldine was mortified. After an awkward silence, she muttered something about problems with the strings of lights and left, dragging her sister along.

I was finally alone with Maxime. Now that he did not have to put up a front for the twins, he looked distraught.

“I’m completely shattered.”

His agitation only increased when I showed him the sunglasses that had been left on my table at Dino’s and the handwritten word on the Nice-Matin article: Revenge.

“The exact same message on that same article was delivered to my campaign office the day before yesterday,” he said, massaging his temples. “I should have mentioned it over the phone. I’m really sorry I didn’t, but I thought it might put you off coming.”

“Any idea who sent them?”

“Not the faintest, but even if we managed to find out, it wouldn’t change things.” He nodded at the bulldozer and the site office filled with tools. “Demolition starts Monday. Whatever we do, we’re fucked.”