Read Chapter 7: The Lie

The church of Sainte-Marie-des-Marais smelled of candle wax and damp stone, the same smell Camille remembered from childhood Sundays when her mother would drag them all to Mass and Étienne would pinch her arm until she yelped. She hadn't set foot inside in twenty years, and the priest who greeted her at the door had aged into a stooped silhouette of the man who had once given her catechism classes.

“Camille Bellerose,” Father Moreau said, taking her hand in both of his. His skin was paper-thin, the veins visible beneath like river tributaries. “I was sorry to hear about your mother. She was a faithful woman.”

Camille doubted that, given what she now knew, but she kept her expression neutral. “Thank you, Father. I wanted to ask you about the funeral.”

“Of course, of course.” He led her past the pews to a small office tucked behind the sacristy. The room smelled of old books and bitter coffee. A single window looked out onto the churchyard where Camille’s mother had been buried beside an empty plot that no one had ever explained.

“I have several documents to file regarding the estate,” Camille said, settling into a chair across from his desk. This was a lie, but a plausible one. “My mother kept records through the parish, I believe.”

Father Moreau nodded slowly, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Your mother was meticulous. She arranged everything years in advance.”

“Everything?”

“The service, the burial, the reception.” He smiled. “She even left letters for each of you girls. To be given at the funeral.”

Camille’s blood went cold. “Letters?”

“Yes.” He rose and moved to a cabinet against the far wall. “Yours I delivered myself, the morning of the service. As she instructed.”

That was the letter Camille now carried folded in her jacket pocket. The one that had turned her world upside down with its accusations.

“And my sisters’ letters?”

Father Moreau paused, his hand resting on the cabinet handle. He turned to face her, and something shifted in his expression—wariness, perhaps, or guilt. “I delivered only yours, Camille. The others, I burned.”

The words landed like stones in still water. Camille stared at him, uncomprehending. “You burned them?”

“At Élodie’s request.” He returned to his chair, settling heavily into it as though the confession had aged him further. “She visited me the week before your mother died. Said their mother had already given her the letters privately, and the copies I held were to be destroyed.”

“Copies?”

“Your mother left three sealed letters with me, identical in appearance. She was very specific about when they should be given.” He shook his head. “I assumed Élodie spoke for your sister Inès as well. She said she would inform her.”

Camille’s mind churned. Élodie had burned her own letter at the manor, performing outrage before throwing it into the fire. But she had also burned the copies the priest had held. Copies that were meant to reach Inès.

“Did you read them?” Camille asked.

“I never read the contents. I only held them.” He leaned forward. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Camille said automatically. “Nothing. Thank you, Father.”

She left the church with the bell tower tolling noon behind her. The square was quiet, shuttered for the midday meal. She stood at the edge of the fountain, watching the water ripple, and tried to piece together what she had learned.

Élodie had asked the priest to burn letters intended for Inès. That meant Élodie had known their mother had left letters for all three of them. And she had chosen to intercept two of them—hers and Inès’s—leaving only Camille’s to arrive.

But that created an obvious problem. If Élodie had wanted to hide the contents of her own letter, why burn it publicly at the manor with such theatrical anger? Unless the performance had been for Camille and Inès, to make them believe she was just as much a victim of their mother’s secrecy as they were.

The old stable block stood at the edge of the property, its stone walls softened by climbing ivy. Camille found Élodie inside, sitting on a flipped crate near the tack room, a cigarette burning forgotten between her fingers. She looked up as Camille entered, and the wariness in her eyes confirmed everything Camille suspected.

“You burned the letters,” Camille said. No greeting, no preamble.

Élodie didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She took a slow drag from the cigarette and exhaled toward the rafters. “I did.”

“Inès’s letter too.”

“I did what I thought was right.”

Camille crossed the space between them, and for a moment she felt like the older sister she had never quite learned to be—the one who should have protected them from their mother, their father, the whole fractured mess of their family. “You had no right.”

“I had every right.” Élodie stubbed out the cigarette on the crate, leaving a black scar on the wood. “I’d already seen my letter. I knew what she’d written to each of us. And I knew it would only hurt Inès more to read hers.”

“You don’t get to decide that for her.”

“I was trying to protect her.” Élodie’s voice cracked, and she looked away. “Camille, you don’t understand what our mother was capable of.”

“Then tell me.”

Silence stretched between them. A horse stamped in the neighboring paddock, and somewhere beyond the stable, a door slammed—Inès, probably, wondering where they had gone.

Élodie rubbed her face with both hands. “The letters were versions of the same story. Our mother told each of us what we needed to hear to make us act the way she wanted. Yours painted her as a victim. Mine—” She laughed without humor. “Mine was different. She told me the truth about our father. About why he left.”

“And what was that?”

“He didn’t leave because he wanted to.” Élodie looked up, and the expression in her eyes was raw, unguarded. “She drove him away.”

“You know that for certain?”

“I know she said it.” Élodie stood, brushing straw from her jeans. “The letter admitted everything. That she was controlling, possessive, that she made his life unbearable until he had no choice but to run.”

“And J?” Camille said. “Who is J?”

Élodie’s face flickered. “How do you know about J?”

“Inès found letters. In our mother’s handwriting. Love letters addressed to someone called L.”

Something passed through Élodie’s expression—Camille couldn’t name it. Surprise? Recognition? She recovered quickly, shaking her head. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” Élodie stepped around her, moving toward the stable door. “I told you what I know. Mother told me she drove Father away. I believed her. That’s why I didn’t want Inès reading those letters—they would have poisoned her the way they poisoned me.”

“If they were lies, why burn them instead of showing Inès the truth?”

Élodie paused at the door, her back to Camille. The afternoon light silhouetted her, making her features impossible to read. “Because I don’t know what was true. The letter I read was written by a woman who manipulated people all her life. Our mother told stories the way other people breathe—without thinking, constantly, and sometimes just to survive. I didn’t trust anything she wrote.”

“So you burned the evidence.”

“I burned the lies.” Élodie turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but her voice was steady. “Inès has suffered enough. She deserved to remember a mother who loved her, not the version our mother wrote about in those letters.”

“You don’t know what was in Inès’s letter. You said you hadn’t read it.”

A beat of hesitation. Then Élodie said, “I knew our mother. I could guess.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” Élodie agreed. “But it was enough for me to make a choice.”

She walked out into the yard, leaving Camille alone in the dim stable. The smell of hay and horse and old wood surrounded her, and she stood there for a long moment, breathing through the anger that pulsed in her chest.

Élodie was hiding something. Camille was certain of it now, the way she was certain of the law, of precedent, of the weight of evidence. Her sister had burned those letters not to protect Inès but to protect herself. And the question was what they contained that she couldn’t bear for anyone else to see.

Camille pulled her mother’s letter from her pocket, smoothing the creased paper. The words she had read a dozen times seemed to shift now, rearranging themselves into different patterns, different truths.

Everyone in this family carries their own version of the story, her mother had written. Perhaps it was time to find out which one was true.