Read Chapter 30: A New Client

The morning sun cut through the blinds of Claire’s apartment, striping the kitchen table in pale gold. She had barely slept. The convent records from Orléans sat in her mind like a locked door, and now, finally, she had the key.

Marc was already dressed, his suit jacket slung over the back of a chair as he poured coffee. He looked different now—lighter, despite everything. The weight of his father’s crimes had been lifted from his shoulders and transferred to the courts, where it belonged.

“You ready for the drive?” he asked.

“More than ready.” Claire wrapped her hands around her own mug, letting the warmth settle her nerves. “I want to see her grave. I want to know she wasn’t just a footnote in someone else’s story.”

Marc opened his mouth to respond, but a knock at the door cut him off. They exchanged a glance. No one visited this early.

Claire set down her mug and crossed to the door, peering through the peephole. A woman stood in the hallway—mid-fifties, sharp cheekbones, silver-streaked hair pulled into a low bun. She wore a tailored charcoal coat, the kind that cost more than Claire’s rent. In her gloved hands, she clutched a leather portfolio.

Claire opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“Mademoiselle Dubois?” The woman’s voice was measured, cultured. “My name is Isabelle Perrault. I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks, but given the circumstances—” she offered a thin smile “—I imagine your voicemail has been full.”

Claire didn’t invite her in. “Perrault. As in Julien Perrault?”

The woman’s eyes flickered with something—relief, perhaps. “Yes. My great-great-uncle. May I come in? I have something I believe you’ll want to see.”

Marc appeared behind Claire, his expression guarded. He gave a small nod. Claire stepped aside.

Isabelle Perrault entered with the confidence of someone accustomed to being received. She didn’t glance around the modest apartment, didn’t comment on the stacks of research materials covering the worn sofa. Instead, she went straight to the kitchen table, set down her portfolio, and unfastened the brass clasps.

Inside were photographs—dozens of them, professional reproductions of paintings and sketches. But it wasn’t the images that made Claire’s breath catch. It was the signature in the corners, visible even in reproduction.

J. Perrault.

“These are his works,” Claire said, already reaching for one of the photographs. “Julien’s. Where did you get these?”

“The family kept everything,” Isabelle said. “After the scandal, we hid it all. My grandmother was terrified—the Vergers had money, influence, and they made it clear that anyone who continued to associate with Julien would face consequences. So we buried his legacy. Literally, in some cases.” She paused. “But I’ve followed your story, Mademoiselle Dubois. What you discovered about Elodie Verger, about what was done to her. I believe my uncle was innocent. I believe he was destroyed by the same people who destroyed her.”

Claire looked up from the photographs. “You want to clear his name.”

“I want the truth told. All of it.” Isabelle’s voice trembled, just slightly. “My family has lived with shame for three generations. Every history book, every catalog, every exhibition—they call Julien a murderer, a man who fled after killing his lover. I know he didn’t. I know he was framed. And I think you’re the only person who can prove it.”

Marc leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Why come to us? Why not hire a lawyer, a historian?”

“Because the evidence is in the paint.” Isabelle gestured to the photographs. “These are photographs of his original works—some of them are in private collections, a few in museums. But I have access to the three paintings that never left the family. They’ve been in my mother’s attic for seventy years, untouched. You’re one of the best restorers in Paris. If there’s anything hidden beneath the surface, you’re the one who can find it.”

Claire’s pulse quickened. She thought of Elodie’s portrait, the hidden face beneath the layers of overpaint. If Julien had done that once, he could have done it again.

“Where are these paintings?” she asked.

“In my home in Neuilly. I can have them brought to your studio today, if you agree.”

Claire glanced at Marc. They were supposed to leave for Orléans this morning—the convent records, the asylum files, the final piece of Elodie’s story. But this was different. This was Julien’s story. And if the two were connected, as she suspected they were, then this was the missing piece of the puzzle.

“I have a trip planned,” Claire said slowly. “But I can postpone it. Let me see the paintings first.”

Isabelle’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “Thank you. I’ll arrange delivery within the hour.”

After she left, Marc turned to Claire. “You’re sure about this?”

“He loved her, Marc. Julien loved Elodie, and he died in that asylum eleven years after she did, alone and forgotten. If his family wants the truth, they deserve it.” She picked up one of the photographs—a small sketch of a woman’s profile, unmistakably Elodie. “And if he hid messages in his work before, he might have hidden one again.”

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Three hours later, Claire stood in her studio, facing three canvases propped against the far wall. They were landscapes—loose, expressive brushwork, the kind of plein air studies an artist made to loosen his hand. At first glance, nothing remarkable.

But Claire didn’t trust first glances anymore.

She started with the smallest painting, a view of the Seine at dusk. The paint was old, cracking in the way of aged oil, the varnish yellowed with time. She examined it under raking light, looking for the subtle texture changes that indicated overpainting. Nothing obvious. She moved to the second—a garden scene, overgrown roses, a bench. Still nothing.

The third was different. It was the largest of the three, a stormy sky over the cliffs of Étretat. The compositions was bold, almost violent, the paint applied in thick, urgent strokes. Claire felt a pull toward it immediately.

She set it on her easel and began with infrared reflectography, scanning the surface for underdrawing. The machine hummed, the image blooming on her monitor. Beneath the storm clouds, faint lines emerged—not part of the composition. A grid. And inside the grid, letters.

She adjusted the focus, heart hammering. The letters resolved into words.

*For Elodie. Where the sea meets the stone, I left what I could not say.*

Claire stared at the screen. Étretat. The cliffs. Julien had painted this after Elodie’s disappearance—after he was accused of her murder. And he had buried something there.

“Marc,” she called, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I need to go to Normandy.”