CHAPTER 3 — Bread Collected in My Name

“I'm being released? Does that mean the charges have been dropped?”

“No.”

Leila's smile vanished at Adèle's answer.

“The prosecutor doesn't believe the evidence currently justifies keeping you in custody. The investigation is still open.”

“So people can keep calling me an arsonist.”

“Then we'll have to put that right.”

It was morning when they stepped out of the police station. Broken bottles and sodden leaflets littered the street. Someone had written BREAD IS NOT A LUXURY on a supermarket shutter. Someone else had scrawled THIEVES GO HOME over it.

Samira came running from across the road.

“Leila!”

The sisters threw their arms around each other. Samira's coat smelled of detergent; she must have come straight from her night shift at the distribution warehouse.

“Did you sleep?” Leila asked.

“With you under arrest?”

“I'm all right.”

“Don't say that. I saw you on the news. Everyone's sharing your face.”

Samira held out her phone. Abuse poured down the screen beneath an image of Leila carrying the red medical bag.

“Has anyone come to the apartment?”

“Not yet. But my supervisor called. Told me not to come in today. Not until your situation is sorted out.”

Leila took her sister's hand. The palm was rough with calluses. Even the wages Samira earned hauling boxes through the night might now be gone.

“I'll speak to Adèle.”

“Why are you apologizing? Go after the person who set the fire.”

Gabriel emerged from the station. Leila turned away first. He didn't follow her. He handed documents to Adèle instead, as though allowing someone to walk away was a choice he could make.

“We're investigating the source of the footage we received. If you have additional evidence, please submit it through your lawyer.”

Leila spoke up. “Did you check when the police cordon was put up?”

“I compared the records.”

“Then you know I wasn't lying?”

“I know there's a problem with the footage. The other allegations must still be examined.”

“Can you undo the fact that my face was on the news in the middle of the night?”

“No. I can't undo that.”

“Then next time, at least check the facts before giving them someone else's face.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to object, then closed it. Even the time he'd put handcuffs on Leila had been entered into the record.

“Next time, I'll verify first.”

Samira tugged at Leila's arm.

“Is that him? The one who handcuffed you?”

“Yes.”

“Then don't talk to him.”

Leila said nothing. Gabriel had heard, but merely turned and walked away.

In an alley lined with shuttered bakeries, a child stood counting coins in an open palm. Behind the locked glass lay a few loaves that hadn't sold yesterday. Leila remembered the little girl who'd asked whether she'd open the relief center again.

Louise, the baker who usually donated leftover bread, approached from the mouth of the alley. She stopped when she saw the sisters.

“Leila. Was it really you?”

“No. I didn't do it.”

“I want to believe you. But our shop was smashed last night too. My husband says he doesn't know who to trust.”

Louise walked past without waiting for an answer. Leila didn't stop her. Yesterday she'd been trusted with this woman's bread. Today Louise could barely look her in the eye.

Samira bit her lip. “If even Louise is like that, what about everyone else?”

“First, we do what we came to do.”

“Why is work always the first thing you think about?”

“Because hungry people can't wait for my case to be resolved.”

Leila picked up an empty bread crate. Her arms trembled under the weight of the light wooden box. Last night, before getting into the police car, she'd promised to open the doors tomorrow. There was hardly a door left to unlock, but someone would come believing her.

The relief center's shutter was buckled. A police seal marked the lock. Only the side entrance could be opened, and only after the required checks.

“Can we go inside?” Samira asked.

“Adèle checked which areas are accessible. The warehouse is still off-limits.”

The refrigerator had stopped. Paramedics had moved the medicines the night before, but most of the food had spoiled. Leila was throwing out cartons of milk when she froze.

The metal filing cabinet stood open.

“Samira, where's our delivery ledger?”

“Bottom shelf, where it always is.”

“It's gone.”

“Did someone take it?”

Only the empty file holder remained. Leila turned over a sheet of paper and a delivery receipt slid to the floor. It bore the Valois Group logo.

EMERGENCY FOOD SUPPLIES — 80 BOXES RECEIVED.

In the recipient field was the name Leila Haddad.

“Is that your signature?”

“No.”

“Then why is your name there?”

Leila pointed to the bottom-right corner. The receipt was timed just after the explosion.

“At that moment I was stopping Julien from bleeding to death.”

“While you were trying to save someone, somebody stole your name.”

Leila rubbed at the smudged ink. The final d in Haddad curved differently from the way she wrote it.

“Who supposedly collected bread in my name?”

Instead of answering, Samira unfolded the page again.

A smaller line appeared below the receipt:

VIDEO OF ON-SITE ACCEPTANCE ATTACHED.

On the night she'd stained her hands with blood to keep Julien alive, somebody had written that she'd stolen bread using her own name. Samira gripped the paper.

“They've stolen your name twice.”