Read Chapter 6: The Weeping Willow

The vineyard sat low in a fold of hills, rows of gnarled vines running down toward a ribbon of river. Julien parked his battered Land Rover under a spreading oak and killed the engine. For a moment neither of them moved.

“My grandfather planted these,” he said, nodding at the nearest row. “He sold the land to a cooperative before I was born, but the family kept this corner. The house is gone now, but the vines stay.”

Camille stepped out into the cool morning air. Dew clung to the grass, soaking the hem of her jeans. She hadn't asked where they were going when he'd pulled up outside her apartment building at five sharp, dark circles under his eyes, coffee already in his hand. She'd just gotten in.

He walked ahead of her, hands in the pockets of a worn canvas jacket. His shoulders were less rigid here, the captain's mask set aside. She followed him past the vines, down a slope where the ground softened, until they reached an old willow that bowed over the riverbank, its branches trailing in the slow green water.

Julien sat down heavily, back against the trunk. “Vincent and I used to come here as kids. We'd throw stones into the river and bet on which one would sink first.” He picked up a flat pebble and turned it over in his fingers. “He always won. Said it was because he watched the way the water moved. I never had that patience.”

Camille lowered herself onto the grass beside him, leaving a foot of space between them. The willow above them whispered in a breeze that smelled of river and wet earth.

“We were in the same academy,” Julien continued. “Same club, same positions, almost. He was a scrum-half, I was fly-half. People said we had a telepathy on the pitch. He knew where I'd pass before I'd decided to throw it.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “We were supposed to play for France together. That was the plan. He was better than me. Cleaner. He didn't have any of this…” He gestured vaguely at himself, at his own body, his own fury. “He played calm. Like the game was chess to him. I played like it was war.”

The pebble in his hand dropped into the river with a soft plop. Ripples spread, then vanished.

“The match was in Clermont,” he said. “Rain had been falling all week. The pitch was heavy. I remember he took a knock early, first half, a knee to the head during a ruck. Standard stuff. He got up, shook it off. Played on.” Julien's jaw tightened. “I didn't notice anything. He seemed fine. He was talking, joking at halftime. He ate an orange. He told me I was telegraphing my passes again.”

Camille watched his hands as he spoke. They were scarred, the knuckles swollen from years of contact. They trembled slightly now, and she didn't think it was from the morning cold.

“Second half. He's setting up a play from a scrum. He stands up, takes three steps, and his eyes just… went. Like someone turned a light off. He went down before the ball even got to him. No impact. No tackle. Just fell.” Julien's voice cracked. “They said later it was a subdural hematoma. Bleeding on the brain. Probably started with that first knock. If he'd been pulled out then, if someone had checked him properly, he might have—”.

He stopped. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the river's low murmur.

“I was captain that day too,” he said quietly. “I was responsible for the players on the pitch. I should have seen it. I should have told the medic to look at him closer. But I didn't want to lose him from the field, we were chasing the game. I wanted to win. And my brother died because I wanted to win a rugby match.”

Camille felt the weight of the words settle in her chest. She thought of the letter in Vincent's kit bag, unopened for fifteen years. She thought of the scrum cap, the laminated photo she'd glimpsed inside the bag before covering it back up.

“You can't carry that,” she said softly.

“I've been carrying it for fifteen years.” His eyes were wet. “It's why I keep playing. Every match, every minute, I'm trying to finish the season he didn't get. Like if I complete what he started, it makes it right somehow.”

“Does it?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. I just don't know how to stop.”

A lark rose from the grass nearby, climbing in a spiral of song. Camille watched it until it was a speck against the pale sky.

“My brother's name was Vincent too,” she said.

Julien's head turned toward her. “Your brother—”.

“He was younger. He drowned when I was nineteen. We were on holiday in the Ardèche. He was a strong swimmer, he'd been swimming since he could walk. But the current that day was stronger than us both.” She said it flatly, the words worn smooth from repetition. “My mother never forgave the river. She never forgave me either. Because I was the one who suggested we go to that spot. She never said it out loud. But I saw the way she looked at me after. Like I was the one who'd held him under.”

Julien didn't say anything. He reached over and took her hand. His palm was warm, calloused, rough. She should have pulled away. She didn't.

They sat like that under the willow for a long time, the river moving past them, the morning warming around them.

“Eric knows about us,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “He gave me a file on you. Your whole medical history. He said he wants me to keep you playing, not necessarily to keep you healthy.”

Julien let go of her hand. He was staring at the river again. “Moreau put a price on my body.”

“Sixty thousand euros. If I keep you off the treatment table and on the pitch.”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “And my death? What does that pay?”

“Julien.”

“I know what the scans show, Camille. I've looked at them. My spine is held together with hope and steal. My knees are a physics experiment that's about to fail. Here's what you don't understand.” He turned to face her. “I've known for years that I won't walk from this field. I've made my peace with it. What I need from you isn't to save me. It's to help me last until June.”

“And then what?”

“Then it doesn't matter. The debt comes due. Moreau loses the club. We all go our separate ways.” He stood up, brushing grass from his trousers. “But between now and June, we have a season to win. And I need to be out there.”

Camille rose slowly. “You told me your mother's name is Élise Roussel. My mother's name is Élise Roussel.”

He went very still.

“I asked her once, years ago, if I had other siblings,” Camille said. “She said no. She was very certain. But I want to understand how two people with the same last name, both born in Paris, both connected to the Roussel family—”.

Julien turned on her, his eyes suddenly wary. “She left me when I was an infant. I was raised by my father, then by the system after he died. I've never met her. I want it to stay that way.”

“You don't want to know why she left?”

“I don't want to know who she chose to keep.” His voice was cold now, a door closing. “Let's go back. I have training at ten.”

He walked back up the slope without waiting for her. Camille stood under the willow, watching him go. The letter in the kit bag grew heavier in her mind by the moment. Somewhere in its pages, she was certain, lay the truth about why Élise Roussel had kept one son and abandoned another. Or perhaps, she thought with a chill, why she'd kept Camille and left Julien to the mercy of coaches and boarding schools while she built a new life in Paris with a husband and a daughter who never knew Vincent existed.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. No new messages. She hadn't told Julien about Moreau's conversation with Marcel Aubert. Or about the video evidence she now carried of his deteriorating gait. One secret too many already sat between them.

She followed him up the slope, watching the way his limp had grown more pronounced in the wet grass, and wondered how many more mornings they had before the truth came for them all.