The Candle Was A Signal

"The Fragonard never burned," Anton said.

Élise pressed her bleeding thumb against her apron. The altar cloth lay between them, half-stitched, the needle a tiny silver accusation. "You told me you made it disappear. So it burned. That's what disappear means."

"It means it never existed to anyone who was looking." Anton pulled a folded receipt from his coat. Yellowed, creased, the edges soft as cloth. She recognized the handwriting before he handed it over. Marc's. A locker at Gare de Lyon. Recurring payments, twenty years, cash.

"He paid for that locker every year," Anton said. "Never missed one. You know what a man stores for twenty years, Élise? Only something he plans to come back for."

Her knees betrayed her. She sat down hard on the stool, the receipt crumpling in her grip. Ten years of candlelight. Ten years