Read Chapter 18: The Missing Letter

The key was still in the lock, cold against her fingers. Camille hesitated, then turned it. The door to the storage closet at the back of the club’s medical wing swung open with a soft groan, releasing the smell of old leather, liniment, and dust.

She’d told herself she was doing this to settle things. To return what Vincent had left behind. A small kindness, performed quietly, no one the wiser. But now, standing in the dim light of the single bare bulb swinging overhead, Camille felt like an intruder in a room that had already claimed its ghosts.

The kit bag sat where she’d left it, slumped against the far wall beneath a shelf of expired tape rolls. She crouched and dragged it toward her, the weight of it heavier than she remembered. The canvas was scuffed, the logo of a club that no longer existed half-faded. She unzipped the main compartment slowly, cataloguing the contents like evidence—two frayed training jerseys, a pair of boots with the studs worn down, an old scrum cap, a water bottle with a crack in the lid.

She’d planned to simply zip it closed and drive it to Vincent’s mother’s address, the one she’d found in the club’s old files. No note. No explanation. Just the last belongings of a man whose death had cracked everyone open in ways they were still discovering.

But then she saw it.

At the bottom of the bag, pressed flat beneath a rolled-up towel, was the envelope. Cream-colored, with a small rip along the flap where she’d opened it those weeks ago at the vineyard. She picked it up, her thumb brushing the paper, feeling the faint texture of folds that had been smoothed flat and then reopened.

She should not read it again. She knew that. But the first time, she’d skimmed it, eyes catching only fragments as she’d tried to understand why Julien had kept it hidden. Now, in the quiet of the storage room, with the club empty and the fluorescent hum of the hallway beyond, she pulled the letter out.

The handwriting was Julien’s, but barely. It was cramped, slanting hard to the right, as if his hand had been shaking while he wrote. The ink had bled in places, smudged into small gray pools where his fingers had pressed too hard.

*Vincent.*

*I don’t know how to write this, so I’m just going to put it down. You’ve been gone three weeks and I still can’t say the word. Dead. I can’t say it. When they ask me how I am, I say “okay” and it feels like a lie that’s going to poison me from the inside.*

She closed her eyes. The letter was dated four years ago—a month after Vincent’s death. Julien would have been twenty-two, still living under his father’s shadow, still carrying the family’s name like a debt he couldn’t pay.

She read on.

*I know you’re not reading this. I know that. But I have to write it because I can’t say it out loud. I was supposed to be there for you. That’s what brothers do. That’s what I told myself every time we walked onto the pitch. You go high, I go low. You take the glory, I take the hits. That was the deal.*

Her throat tightened.

*But I didn’t take the hit, Vincent. I didn’t see him coming. I was watching the ball, watching you, watching everything except the one thing that mattered. The high ball came down and you called it and I should have cleared him out. I should have been the wall. That’s my job. That’s always been my job. And I wasn't there.*

Camille’s hand trembled. The words were still on the page, still raw, still bleeding after all this time. She remembered what Julien had told her in the vineyard—about the last exchange, about the guilt he carried. But this letter had details he’d never given her. The mechanics of the accident. The specific failure that had become the anchor of his nightmares.

*The doctor told Mum it was a freak accident. That it could have happened to anyone. He said the impact was just unlucky. But it wasn’t luck, Vincent. Luck is timing. Luck is being in the right place. I was supposed to be in the right place. I was supposed to clear the space. I was supposed to protect you. And I didn't.*

A sob caught in her throat—not hers, but his, carried across years in the uneven pressure of the pen strokes.

*I keep replaying it. The sound when you hit the ground. I’ve tried to drink it away. I’ve tried to fight it away. But it’s still there when I close my eyes. You were always the better one. Everyone knew that. Dad knew that. I did the work, but you did it with grace. You made it look easy. And I was jealous of that, Vincent. I never told you, but I was. And now you’re gone and all I have left is the wish that I’d been less jealous and more present.*

*I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you. I’m sorry I’m still here. I’m sorry I can’t say any of this to Mum because she looks at me like I’m the one that’s left and she doesn’t know what to do with that. I’m sorry I wasn't the brother you deserved. I’m sorry I didn’t take the hit.*

*If I could trade places with you, I would. I’d do it in a second. And maybe that’s the only thing keeping me going—knowing that if I don’t take my chances, if I don’t make this life count for something, then your death doesn’t mean anything either. And I can’t let that happen. I won't. I’ll carry you into every match I play. I’ll win for you. But I don’t know how to live without you.*

*Your brother,* *Julien.*

The last line was smudged. A drop of water—or sweat, or something else—had blurred the ink. Camille sat back against the wall, the letter limp in her fingers, and stared at the ceiling as the tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over.

This was the letter he never sent. Because he couldn’t face his brother’s death. He couldn’t put it in Vincent’s hands because Vincent wasn’t there to receive it. And so it had stayed, folded and hidden, a confession to a dead man that had never been absolved.

She thought of him on the pitch during the rematch, the controlled fury in his eyes. She thought of his public dedication—"the man who taught me everything"—and how even now, in victory, he was still carrying the weight of this unsent apology like a stone in his chest.

The door creaked.

Camille’s head snapped up. A shadow filled the doorway. She blinked against the light, her heart hammering as she stuffed the letter back into the envelope and shoved it into her coat pocket.

“Camille?” The voice was low, careful. Moreau stepped into the storage room, his eyes moving from her face to the kit bag at her feet, then back to her wet cheeks. He didn’t ask why she was crying. He just stood there, blocking the light, a man who knew more than he let on.

“Coach,” she said, clearing her throat. “I was just—”

“I saw you come in here,” he said. “You’ve been gone a while. Julien asked me to find you.” He paused. “His mother’s arrived. She’s waiting in his office.”

Camille’s stomach dropped. She’d forgotten. The timing was impossible, but there it was.

Moreau’s gaze flicked to her coat pocket, where the corner of the envelope pressed against the fabric. For a moment, she thought he might say something. But he only nodded toward the door.

“You should go clean yourself up,” he said. “You don’t want to meet her looking like you’ve been crying.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

As she passed him in the doorway, he caught her arm. His grip was gentle, but firm. “Camille,” he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. “That letter you’re hiding. If it’s what I think it is, you need to ask yourself why Julien never sent it. And you need to ask yourself what you’re going to do with it now that you have it.”

He let go and walked away without waiting for a response.

Camille stood in the hallway, the letter burning in her pocket, and felt the weight of a choice she hadn’t been ready to make.

She had to take it to Julien. But she had to do it before his mother got in the way.