The view was breathtaking, sweeping from the old city walls of Antibes across the bay of Nice, framed by the mountainous inland. Here, in the shelter of the pine forests, were some of the most lavish properties on the Côte d’Azur. The air quivered with the crash of waves, sending up sea spray. She could feel the brute force of the sea.

Time was, the area had seen many tragic accidents. The roiling waves had swept away fishermen, tourists, even couples who had come to make love by the shore. The resulting outcry had forced the authorities to secure the path; they built concrete steps and erected barriers to thwart any hiker’s impulse to get too close to the edge. But it took only a few hours of high winds to turn it into dangerous terrain once more.

Manon reached a spot where a fallen Aleppo pine had blocked the path. Impossible to go any farther. She considered turning back. There was not a living soul around—the gale-force mistral had kept ramblers away.

Get the hell out, girl.

She stood motionless and listened to the wind blowing. It was like a plaintive howl, at once close and distant. A muted threat.

Although she was barefoot, she leaped up onto a boulder, skirted the obstruction, and walked on, with only her phone to light the way.

A dark shape was silhouetted some distance down the cliff face. She peered into the gloom. No, she was too far away to make out what it was. With great care, she tried to climb down. She heard a tearing sound. The hem of her lace dress had ripped, but she ignored it. Now she could see the shape that had caught her eye. It was a body. The corpse of a woman sprawled on the rocks. As she moved closer, she felt terror grip her. This was no accident. The woman’s face had been beaten to a bloody pulp. God Almighty. Manon felt her legs start to give. She knew she was about to collapse. She keyed the security code into her phone to call for help. There was no signal, but still the screen said Emergency calls only. She was about to press Call when she realized that she was not alone. A little farther away, a man sat, sobbing. Slumped over, he wept, his face buried in his hands.

Manon was terrified. In that moment, she regretted coming out unarmed. Warily, she approached him. The man sat up, and when he raised his head, Manon recognized him.

“It was me…this is my fault,” he said, pointing at the corpse.

1992