Read Chapter 4: The Will of Three

Maître Lefèvre arrived precisely at ten o'clock, as if punctuality were a moral virtue he intended to enforce upon the world. He carried a weathered leather satchel and wore the same charcoal suit he'd worn to the funeral, slightly more rumpled now, as though the past three days had aged him alongside the paperwork.

The three sisters assembled in the library without greeting one another. Élodie stood by the window with her arms crossed, staring at the overcast sky. Inès had tucked herself into the corner armchair, knees drawn up, her fingers tracing the armrest as if reading braille. Camille sat behind their mother's desk—a gesture that felt both natural and presumptuous—and folded her hands on the blotter.

"Shall I begin?" Lefèvre asked, settling into the chair across from Camille. He withdrew a document from his satchel, its pages yellowed at the edges. "Your mother's final testament, executed in full. I read the summary at the funeral, but you are entitled to the complete text."

"We know the gist," Élodie said without turning around. "We can't sell the house without all of us agreeing. The letters. That's it."

"Not quite." Lefèvre adjusted his glasses. "The letters were a personal matter, delivered separately. The testament itself makes specific provisions. Article One: division of the estate."

Camille felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The will had been read at the funeral, but the full text had been kept sealed. Marguerite Desmarais had been nothing if not precise, and precision in inheritance was rarely kind.

"Article One," Lefèvre repeated, enjoying the gravity of his own voice, "bestows to Camille Desmarais the entirety of the manor at Saint-Rémy-sur-Mer, including all outbuildings, gardens, and grounds, free and clear of any encumbrance."

The silence that followed had weight. Camille felt the breath leave her chest. The house. All of it. Given to her.

"Article Two," Lefèvre continued, "bestows to Élodie Desmarais the contents of the family trust at Crédit Normand, comprising liquid assets, securities, and the proceeds from the sale of the Paris apartment, the sum total of which amounts to—" he lowered the document and peered over his spectacles, "—four hundred and twelve thousand euros."

Élodie turned slowly from the window. Her face had gone the color of cold ash. "Four hundred thousand."

"Twelve thousand," Lefèvre corrected.

"Four hundred and twelve thousand euros," Élodie said, tasting the words as though they were bitter on her tongue. "And what does Inès get? A box of her childhood drawings?"

"Inès," Lefèvre said, consulting the document with theatrical care, "is bequeathed a sealed chest containing correspondence, held in the family possession, to be delivered upon the execution of this will with the instruction that it not be opened until all three sisters have been informed of its contents."

Inès looked up from the armchair, her face unreadable. "Correspondence," she repeated.

"Letters," Lefèvre said. "Several decades' worth, from the look of the collection. Sealed with wax, the seal unbroken."

"Letters from whom?" Camille asked.

The notary raised both hands. "I was instructed not to inspect the contents. The seal indicates the sender's initials—M.D.—but I confess I did not presume to pry."

M.D. Marguerite Desmarais. Their mother had written letters to Inès that she'd never sent. Or perhaps she had sent them, and Inès had saved them. Camille looked at her youngest sister, but Inès's face gave nothing away.

"This is absurd," Élodie snapped. "I get money, you get a house I've been told my entire life would be split three ways, and she gets—what? A box of old paper that could be worth nothing?"

"Your mother was explicit in her reasoning." Lefèvre flipped to the final page. "She writes—and I quote—'To Camille, the house where the truth lives. To Élodie, the means to build a life beyond it. To Inès, the words that explain everything.' Is that satisfactory?"

"Explain everything?" Élodie's voice cracked. "What does that even mean? Explain what?"

Lefèvre closed the document and returned it to his satchel with the finality of a door shutting. "I am merely the messenger, mesdames. The will is filed with the préfecture. The bequests are now legally yours. I wish you all patience and clarity in equal measure." He rose, nodded to each sister in turn, and let himself out. The front door clicked shut behind him, and the manor fell into a silence thick enough to choke on.

Camille stood. The desk felt suddenly too large, the room too small. "Élodie, listen—"

"Don't." Élodie's hands were shaking. "Four hundred thousand euros. Do you know what that means? I could leave this place. I could buy a proper flat, get out of that horrible rental above the brasserie, start over. And she gave it to me like it was a consolation prize. Because she knew it's the only thing that would make me leave."

"Leave?" Camille frowned. "You said you'd sell your share."

"I said I wanted the money from selling the house. That's not the same." Élodie pressed her palms against her temples. "God, I need air."

She stalked out of the library and down the hall, and Camille heard the back door slam. She turned to Inès, who had risen from the armchair and stood with her hands clasped in front of her, her face pale.

"Inès." Camille's voice was gentler than she meant it to be. "Are you all right?"

"I should check on my correspondence," Inès said. Her tone was flat, distant. "Check that it's real."

"It's in the entryway," Camille said. "Lefèvre left it there. I didn't want to open it before—"

"I won't open it." Inès walked past her, pausing at the door. "Not yet. I need to think first."

She disappeared down the hall. A moment later, Camille heard the creak of the stairs, then Inès's footsteps overhead, moving toward the guest wing where she'd been staying. Alone. The way Inès had always moved through this house, Camille remembered. As if she were a ghost haunting her own childhood.

Camille waited. The clock on the mantel ticked in the silence. She counted fifty ticks before she followed Élodie out the back door.

Her sister stood at the edge of the garden, where the lawn gave way to wild grass and eventually the cliffs. The wind whipped Élodie's dark hair across her face, and she didn't bother to push it away.

"You're going to say it's not fair," Élodie said without turning. "That you didn't ask for this. That you'd trade."

"I'm not going to say that," Camille said carefully.

"Good." Élodie laughed, a humorless sound. "Because I wouldn't believe you. You've always wanted this house. You've always wanted to be the one who stayed."

"You left. You never came back. Even when she was sick—"

"Don't." Élodie turned, and there was something raw and brittle in her face. "Don't you dare. You don't know why I didn't come back."

"You had reasons." Camille stopped a few feet away. "Our mother—"

"Our mother wrote to me," Élodie said. "Every month for fifteen years. Every single month. And I never wrote back. Never once. Do you know why?"

Camille shook her head.

"Because I was afraid that if I opened her letters, she'd have written something that would make me forgive her." Élodie's voice cracked. "And I couldn't forgive her. Not for what she did to him."

Content warning interrupted; Élodie faltered, looked at the ground, and pressed her lips together. She was shaking.

"You have a letter too," Camille said quietly.

Élodie went still.

"A letter from our mother," Camille pressed. "At the funeral. We all received one."

"I didn't read mine." Élodie's jaw was tight. "I burned it."

"Burned it—"

"Cremated it. Reduced it to ash." Élodie's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I don't want anything she has to say. Not in this life."

Camille's hand went automatically to her coat pocket, where the letter from her mother had rested against her heart since she'd read it the day of the funeral. Five lines. Five lines that had upended everything.

"What is it?" Élodie asked, catching the gesture. "What did she write to you?"

Camille opened her mouth. The words were there, burning on her tongue: *She says our father was murdered. She says to ask you why you never came home.* She wanted to say it. Wanted to force the truth out of Élodie's guarded silence.

But Élodie looked at her, and Camille saw the distance snap into place behind her sister's eyes. Whatever Élodie knew, she wasn't ready to give it up.

"It's between us," Camille said. "Her letter to me. I'm not ready to share it."

"Of course you're not." Élodie turned away. "Why would you change the habit of a lifetime? You keep everything locked inside you, Camille. You always have."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what I know." Élodie walked past her, back toward the house. "You wanted me here so we could decide the fate of this manor. Fine. I'm here. But if you have something to say, say it now, because I'm staying one more night and then I'm gone."

She disappeared inside. The back door slammed a second time, and Camille stood alone in the garden, the wind pulling at her coat.

One more night alone with what she knew.

She thought of the woman in the lane, watching the house. Of the locket with the missing photograph. Of the iron key that fit no lock in this house.

Her mother's letter had told her to ask Élodie why she never came home. But Élodie had burned her own letter, and Camille had protected hers like a secret.

Why would anyone—their own mother—write to each daughter separately, giving each a different story?

Unless the truth was too heavy for one person to carry.

Camille looked up at the house. In the window of the guest wing, the curtain moved.

Inès had been watching her.