Calvi just had more tourists than she remembered. There was a striking contrast between the Euproctes campsite, lost in the maquis, Arcanu Farm in the midst of the mountains, and the crowd rammed in along the shore, the families driving round and round in overheated car parks before deciding to go and park somewhere further away and return on foot; that tide of humanity coursing down the little streets like lava, flowing from the citadel and spreading out along the quays, the terraces, the beaches. As if receiving millions of visitors to the island had done nothing to change its innate peace, the tranquillity of the areas that had been preserved intact; as if the summer invasion wouldn’t trouble Cassanu or the other people who loved the wild Corsica, because the more tourists there were, the more they crammed themselves into the same spots.

Normally Clotilde didn’t like crowds, but that afternoon she found them reassuring. Numbers meant anonymity. Noise imposed on silence.

Since last night she had done a lot of talking. About herself. About her family. With Franck, first of all, on the road back to the Euproctes campsite. Clotilde had hated the faint hint of victory in his smile. Admit it, Clo, you might have stood there under that oak tree with Valou for ages, leaving me on my own with your grandfather, but no one came. Your mysterious correspondent stood you up.

Yes, Franck, of course, do go on … No flying saucer landed in the yard, no ghost rose up from the ground, there was nothing, nothing but me and my daughter looking out at the empty mountain.

Clotilde hadn’t even dared to broach the subject of the new coincidence that obsessed her, and for which she could find no logical explanation.

Pacha.

The name of Orsu’s dog.

The name of her own dog. Her childhood dog.

A name which – if she pursued her line of reasoning without someone getting in the way and saying, ‘But it’s impossible, my dear’ – had been given to this dog ten years ago by someone who had known Pacha. Who had loved him. Had mourned his death. And since it wasn’t her, there could only be one possible explanation.

Only her mother could have named this dog Pacha.

Less than ten years ago. Almost twenty years after the accident, twenty years after she died.

It’s impossible, my dear!

Franck had parked the car by the lowered barrier of the campsite and kissed Clotilde on the cheek, holding her in his arms for a moment. There was nothing affectionate in the gesture, she had thought – just a respectful hug between two players after a game of tennis. Was their life as a couple reduced to a competition? One set to Franck.