She had to leave Punta Rossa, she had to concentrate on Orsu, on the murder of Cervone Spinello, on the killing of Jakob Schreiber, on the sabotaging of her parents’ car. Everything was connected, everything had to be connected.

She needed to call Franck too, and Valentine, she hadn’t heard from them since that short text the previous night.

All fine.

We’ll be back in a few days, as planned.

You mean a lot to me.

She walked to the Passat in silence, unable to avoid wondering if that was the last time she would see Natale.

In films, men in love tear themselves away from the arms of the woman they don’t love, and rush into the arms of the other woman, and that’s what everyone expects, everyone forgives them, no one has the slightest consideration for the woman who has been abandoned. In films, everyone errs on the side of the heart, no one cares about reason.

But Natale didn’t move. He made no attempt to free himself from Aurélia’s grip.

Clotilde got into the car.

Maybe he would send her a text?

Perhaps once in his life, once at least, Natale might show a bit of courage?

Perhaps he would dare to loosen the moorings?

That was the last question Clotilde asked herself.

Then she started the engine.

~

After taking a dozen bends she reached the edge of Calvi, and parked the Passat by the edge of the road, a few hundred metres down from the police station. Feverishly, she undid her seatbelt and bent over her handbag which was on the passenger seat. She cursed herself inwardly for the incredible mess she had accumulated – mostly papers, old receipts, scribbled and forgotten post-its, old flyers which had been handed out in the street, everything she didn’t want to throw on the ground, or hadn’t yet summoned the time to take to a bin. She emptied everything on to the seat and spread out the contents before picking up what she was looking for between her fingertips.

A letter, of which she reread the first few words:

My Clo,

I don’t know if you’re as stubborn now as you were when you were little, but there’s something I’d like to ask of you.

Calm down. Be methodical for once. She set the letter down on the dashboard and took out the brush and the powder. She had seen the police do this once or twice on the instructions of a family court judge, reducing wonderful love letters to sordid pieces of evidence proving a forbidden relationship.