Chapter 16: The Fifth Chair

The soup was potato and leek. Mathilde knew because she found the pot on the stove with a note taped to the lid in handwriting she didn't recognize. Eat it before it spoils. — S.

She ate two bowls. So did everyone else. Nobody talked about the note. Nobody talked about Sylvie. Nobody talked about the photographs spread across the kitchen table, still sitting there from the night before, faces looking up at the ceiling.

The house felt different that morning. Not better. Not worse. Fuller. Like someone had opened a window and let air into a room that had been sealed for years.

Theo was the first one up. He'd started sleeping in the upstairs bedroom—the one with the leak, now patched with a tarp and a bucket underneath. He came down at six, made coffee, and sat on the porch watching the sun come up. Gerald the dog sat next to him. Neither of them moved.

Mathilde found him there when she came out with her own cup.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked.

"Slept fine. Woke up anyway." He scratched the dog behind its working ear. "It's quiet here. Really quiet. I keep waiting for something to happen."

"Something always happens."

"Yeah. But not right now." He looked at her. "Right now it's just this."

She sat down on the step next to him. The wood was cold. The coffee was hot. The sun was doing its slow climb over the trees.

"We should do something today," she said.

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Something normal. Something that isn't about lawyers or journals or dead fathers."

Theo was quiet for a minute. Then, "There's a market in the village. Saturdays. Sylvie mentioned it."

"Today's Saturday."

"I know."

They looked at each other. Then Theo stood up and stretched.

"Let's go," he said. "Before Caspian wakes up and makes a list."

The village market was three streets wide and smelled like bread and apples and diesel from the tractors parked at the edge. Mathilde walked between stalls of vegetables and cheese and jars of honey with handwritten labels. Theo bought a bag of apples and ate one on the spot, juice running down his chin. He didn't wipe it. He looked like a kid.

James found a stall selling old books. He spent twenty minutes flipping through a cracked-spine copy of something in French. He bought it for two euros. He didn't say what it was.

Caspian bought bread. And cheese. And a chicken from a woman who knew Sylvie. He didn't say much. But he carried the bags. All of them. Even when Theo offered to take one.

They ate lunch on a bench in the square. The church bell rang once at noon. A dog barked somewhere. A kid ran past with a stick. Normal things. Ordinary things.

Mathilde watched the three of them. Caspian counting the change from his pocket. Theo throwing apple cores at a trash can and missing. James reading the first page of his book, his lips moving slightly. They didn't look like the men she'd met three months ago. They looked tired. They looked real. They looked like people.

"You're staring," James said, not looking up.

"I know."

"What are you thinking?"

She thought about lying. She didn't.

"That I'm glad I stayed."

He looked up. His face didn't change. But something behind his eyes did. Something small.

"Me too," he said.

They drove back in the afternoon. The car was full of bags and bread and the smell of apples. Theo had the window down. His hair was a mess. He was singing something off-key—something French, something old, something he probably didn't know the words to. Caspian told him to stop. He didn't.

They pulled into the yard and stopped.

There was a car parked in front of the house. Black. Clean. Expensive. Mathilde's stomach dropped.

"Who is that?" Theo asked.

Nobody answered.

The front door opened. A woman stepped out. Tall. Blonde. Dressed in a grey suit that probably cost more than the house. She looked at the car. At the four of them. She didn't smile.

"Can I help you?" Caspian said. His voice had gone flat. Business.

"You're the Ashfords," she said. Not a question.

"Who's asking?"

She reached into her jacket and pulled out a card. Held it out. Caspian took it. Read it. His face didn't change but his hand did—the slight tightening of his fingers around the card.

"Charlotte Devereux," he said. "You're a journalist."

"I'm a writer. There's a difference." She looked at each of them in turn. "I'm working on a book about your father. About Julien. About what he did."

"We're not interested," Theo said.

"I'm not asking you to be interested. I'm asking you to talk to me. On the record. Or off. Your choice." She paused. "I know things you don't. About your mother. About the accident. About what really happened."

The word accident hung in the air.

James stepped forward. "What do you know?"

"Enough." She looked at him. "I know Richard Ashford didn't die in a car crash. Not the way everyone thinks. I know there was another car. I know someone saw it. And I know that someone is still alive."

The yard went very quiet. Even the dog stopped moving.

"You're lying," Caspian said.

"I don't lie. I research." She reached into her bag and pulled out a folder. Held it out. "This is a witness statement. From a man named Henri Blanc. He was driving behind your father that night. He saw everything. He saw who ran him off the road."

Caspian didn't take the folder. He just looked at it.

"Why are you here?" he asked. "Why now?"

"Because I've been working on this book for three years. And because Julien Ashford is finally in a place where he can't stop me." She looked at the four of them. "I'm not your enemy. I'm the only person who's been trying to find the truth as long as you have."

Theo looked at Caspian. Caspian looked at James. James looked at Mathilde.

She looked at the folder. At the woman. At the house behind her.

"Come inside," she said.

They sat in the kitchen. The five of them. The journalist—Charlotte—sat at the head of the table, the folder open in front of her. The photographs from the night before were still there. The journal. The box. Everything.

Charlotte looked at the journal. Her eyes widened. Just a little.

"You found it," she said. "I've been looking for that for two years."

"You knew about it?" James asked.

"I knew it existed. I didn't know where it was. Julien buried everything. Every record. Every file. Every person who might have known something." She looked at the journal. "May I?"

James nodded.

She opened it. Read a page. Then another. Her face didn't change. She'd learned to control it, Mathilde thought. The way journalists did. But her hands were shaking.

"This is the proof," she said. "This is what I've been trying to find. He documented everything. The threats. The abuse. The fear. It's all here."

"Why do you care?" Theo asked. "What's it to you?"

Charlotte looked at him. For a long moment, she didn't answer. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out another photograph. Set it on the table.

A woman. Dark hair. Wide smile. The same woman from Sylvie's album. But this one was different. She was younger. Standing next to Charlotte. Both of them laughing.

"My mother was Claire's best friend," Charlotte said. "They grew up together. When Claire died, my mother tried to find you. She tried for years. Julien threatened her. Told her if she kept looking, he'd destroy her. She stopped. She was afraid." She paused. "She died two years ago. She never forgave herself."

Nobody spoke.

"I'm finishing what she started," Charlotte said. "I'm going to tell the truth. About Julien. About what he did. About your father. About all of it." She looked at each of them. "I want you to help me."

Caspian leaned back in his chair. He looked at the folder. At the photograph. At Charlotte.

"We need to think about it," he said.

"I understand." She stood up. "I'm staying at the inn in the village. I'll be there for three days. If you decide you want to talk, come find me." She pulled a card out of her pocket and set it on the table. "If you don't, I'll understand that too."

She walked to the door. Stopped. Turned.

"Your father was a good man," she said. "I never met him. But my mother talked about him all the time. She said he was the kind of person who would give you the shirt off his back and then apologize for not having a second one." She paused. "I'm sorry you didn't get to know him."

She left.

The car started. The gravel crunched. The sound faded.

Nobody moved.

Theo was the first to speak. "So. A journalist shows up out of nowhere with proof that our father was murdered and wants us to help her write a book."

"That's the short version," James said.

"And we're supposed to trust her?"

"I don't trust anyone," Caspian said. "But she has proof. That's more than we had this morning."

Mathilde picked up the folder. Opened it. The witness statement. Henri Blanc. A name. An address. A phone number.

She looked at the three of them. At the house. At the dog asleep by the stove. At the fifth chair, still empty, still waiting.

"We should call him," she said.

"Who?" Theo asked.

"Henri Blanc. The witness." She set the folder down. "If he's still alive, he's the only person who can tell us what really happened."

Caspian looked at the folder. At the phone number. At her.

"Tomorrow," he said. "We'll call him tomorrow."

"No," Mathilde said. "Tonight. Before we lose our nerve."

James stood up. He walked to the phone on the wall. Picked it up. Held it out to her.

"You do it," he said. "You're better at this than we are."

Mathilde took the phone. She looked at the number. She dialed.

It rang three times.

An old man answered. His voice was rough. Tired. He said hello in French.

"Henri Blanc?" she asked.

"Who is this?"

"My name is Mathilde Colette. I'm calling about Richard Ashford. About the night he died."

Silence. Long. So long she thought he'd hung up.

Then, "I've been waiting for this call for twenty years."