Read Chapter 7: A Shadow from the Past

The woman appeared at the gallery door just as Julien was locking up for the evening. She was tall, sharp-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that didn’t belong to the Marais’ usual bohemian drift. Her hair was cropped short, silver at the temples, and she carried a leather folio like a weapon.

“Monsieur Moreau?”

“Closed,” Julien said, not turning fully.

“I’m not here to buy.” She stepped forward, close enough that he smelled traces of cigarette smoke and expensive soap. “My name is Geneviève Lacroix. I work for the Bureau Central du Trafic d’Œuvres d’Art. Interpol liaison.”

Julien’s hand tightened on the key in the lock. He forced a tired smile. “I’ve already spoken to the police about the break-in. Twice.”

“This isn’t about the break-in.” She flipped open the folio and withdrew a photograph, holding it up between two fingers. “Do you recognize this man?”

The streetlamp caught the print at an angle, but Julien knew the face before the details resolved. The lazy grin, the untamed dark hair, the way Paul always tilted his head as if the world was a joke only he found funny.

Julien’s brother. Missing since spring of ’79.

“No,” Julien said, too fast.

Geneviève’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t blink. “Take another look, Monsieur Moreau. Take your time.”

He took the photograph. Held it. Let his thumb brush the corner as if studying it.

“I don’t know him,” he said, handing it back. “Who is he?”

“Paul Moreau. Your brother.”

Julien let out a dry laugh. “I was an only child.”

Geneviève smiled without warmth. “Your father’s will, filed in 1974, lists two heirs. You and Paul Moreau. The notary’s records are public. So is the birth certificate from the 17th arrondissement.”

Julien’s jaw tightened. He could claim adoption, estrangement, a clerical error—but she’d already done her homework. There was no scenario where he escaped with a clean lie.

“Haven’t seen him in a decade,” Julien said, letting his shoulders drop into resignation. “We had a falling out. Over the gallery. He wanted to sell it, I wanted to keep it. He left Paris, I don’t know where he went. That’s the truth.”

“When was the last time you had contact?”

“I told you. Ten years. Eleven, maybe.”

“And you never reported him missing?”

“He wasn’t missing. He was gone. There’s a difference.”

Geneviève studied him a moment longer. She had a hunter’s stillness. Julien had seen it in Dupont’s men, in the dealers who smelled blood on a desperate seller.

“Paul Moreau was working as an informant for the Bureau until April of 1979,” she said quietly. “He was investigating the theft of the Caravaggio *Judith* from the Brera. He believed it had been smuggled into France and that the trail would lead through Paris. He went dark two weeks into the operation.”

The name hit Julien like a fist to the sternum. He kept his face neutral. He’d had practice.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Your brother was last seen at a café near the Place des Vosges. Three days before he vanished, he told his handler he was close to identifying the network. He said he had a lead—someone in the family, a connection he trusted.”

Julien’s blood went cold.

“You think I had something to do with his disappearance?” His voice came out harder than intended.

“I think you’re lying about something.” Geneviève slipped the photograph back into her folio. “Your brother’s case was closed in ’82. No body, no leads. But I reopened it three months ago. New evidence surfaced. Financial records suggesting someone in his family was being paid to help launder the painting.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” She tilted her head. “Your father, Marcel Moreau, kept a vault in the cellars of this building. Did he ever mention it?”

Julien’s heart stopped. He didn’t need to look at her to know she saw the flicker of recognition cross his face.

“My father kept a wine cellar,” he said.

“The vault was seized and catalogued in the ’72 investigation into stolen liturgical artifacts. Empty. But the ledger from the seizure lists a secondary compartment that was never opened. The magistrate’s notes say they couldn’t find the key.”

Julien heard the brass key in his pocket hum like a struck tuning fork.

“I’m not looking to arrest you, Monsieur Moreau.” Geneviève’s voice softened, almost maternal. “I’m looking for a colleague. Paul was one of ours. Whatever he was to you, he deserves better than a closed file and a shrug.”

“You’ll find nothing here.”

“I already have.” She nodded toward the empty gallery wall where the Modigliani had hung before Julien moved it. “The painting that was here—a Modigliani, listed in your inventory as ‘sold to private collector, 1981.’ That sale was never registered with the Syndicat. And the purchase date on your invoice doesn’t match the certificate of authenticity you filed in ’83.”

Julien said nothing.

“I’m not here for that, either.” She opened the folio and withdrew a business card, pressing it into his palm. “But if you decide you remember anything about your brother—or about who helped him disappear—you call this number. You’ll reach me directly.”

She turned and walked toward the street. At the corner she paused, looked back once, then disappeared into the evening crowds.

Julien stood frozen, the card burning in his hand. He looked down at it. A single number, a single name: Geneviève Lacroix, Bureau Central.

Underneath, in pencil, someone had written: *Ask her about the blonde.*

Julien crumpled the card into his fist.

The blonde. Geneviève was the second person in a week to mention a blonde. Élise’s hair was the color of wheat, bright as summer. The woman who had come to his door—the one who’d led him to the Burgundy estate—had hair the color of pale honey. And his brother had spent his last months chasing a woman he only ever described as *une blonde fatale*.

Julien unlocked the gallery door and stepped inside, locking it behind him. He stood in the dark, listening to the silence of his own heartbeat.

He needed to see his father’s archives. He needed to find out what the 1957 letter had really meant. And now, more urgently, he needed to know if his brother’s disappearance was tied to the same painting now hidden in his vault.

Two bodies in the Burgundy attic. One missing brother. One forged Caravaggio.

The threads were tangling into a noose.

He took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. On his desk, under a stack of auction catalogs, lay the silver cigarette case from his father’s estate. He opened it again, staring at the hidden compartment where the letter had been. A faint engraving on the inside lip caught his eye—something he’d missed before.

Three letters: *P.M.*

Paul Moreau.

His father had hidden the case in the estate vault. But Paul had known it existed. The initials on the lid were his.

Julien closed his eyes. In the dark of his apartment, with the weight of the Caravaggio pressing down from the cellar below, a single thought surfaced like oil through water:

Paul had not been chasing the Caravaggio.

Paul had been protecting it.

And whoever killed him had never found what he was guarding. Until now.

Julien reached for the telephone, then stopped. Dupont’s men monitored his line—even he knew that much. He’d have to find the next thread in person.

He looked at the crumpled card in his other hand. Geneviève had offered him a way out.

But asking her questions meant answering hers.