Read Chapter 38: The Reunion

The heat hit them like a wall the moment they stepped out of the taxi into the medina. Camille pressed a handkerchief to her lips, the dust already settling on her skin like a second layer. Étienne moved ahead without a word, his eyes scanning the maze of alleys, the sagging doorways, the men who watched them pass with flat, unreadable stares.

Their guide—a wiry French expat who ran a hostel near the spice souk—had heard of a *coq gaulois* who’d been drinking himself slow in a tagine house three streets over. He’d pointed them toward the Café de l’Atlas, a place of rusted tables and flickering fluorescent tubes, and refused to go further.

Étienne pushed the door open. The smell of cheap mint tea and spilled beer hit them. And there, slumped in a corner booth with a glass in his hand and his face buried in the crook of his arm, was Lucas.

He looked smaller than Camille remembered. His chef’s whites were gone, replaced by a stained t-shirt and a thin cardigan that didn’t button properly. His hair had grown long and greasy, and a day-old beard shadowed the sharp jaw that had once barked orders in her kitchen.

“Lucas,” Étienne said.

The man flinched, lifting his head. His eyes were bloodshot, swimming. For a moment, he didn’t seem to recognize them. Then something clicked, and his face went slack with fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice was cracked, barely above a whisper.

Camille slid into the booth across from him. Étienne remained standing, his arms crossed, a wall of silent judgment.

“We came to bring you home,” she said. “We need you at Le Coq Rouge.”

Lucas laughed—a short, bitter bark. “You don’t need me. You need a cleaner, a dishwasher, anyone who isn’t a thief.”

The word hung in the air. Camille’s chest tightened.

“What do you mean?” she asked softly.

He drained the glass in one long swallow, then set it down with trembling fingers. “The fire,” he said. “I started it.”

Étienne’s jaw went rigid. Camille felt the blood drain from her face.

“You were the one who tried to burn down my restaurant?” Étienne’s voice was low, dangerous. “You worked beside me for four years.”

“I didn’t mean for it to spread that far,” Lucas said, suddenly pleading. “It was a small fire in the storage closet. I was going to put it out myself, make myself the hero, buy time. But the dry goods… they went up faster than I thought. And then I panicked, and someone called the fire department, and I had to get out before they found the cash box.”

“The cash box,” Camille repeated, her mind racing. “You were stealing from the restaurant.”

Lucas nodded, unable to meet her eyes. “I had a gambling problem. I still have one. I was in deep with the wrong people in Paris. Threatening letters, broken windows, a car I couldn’t pay off. I figured I could take a little here and there, cover it before anyone noticed. But then a big loss hit, and I needed a whole month’s till to cover it. The safe was too complicated, so I took the cash box the night before inventory. I thought if I made it look like an accident, no one would check the records for days.”

“You scorched the walls, destroyed our equipment, put us out of business for weeks,” Étienne said, stepping closer. “And you ran.”

“I ran because I didn’t want to go to jail,” Lucas said, his voice cracking. “I thought if I disappeared, you’d never find out. I’d drink myself into oblivion somewhere far enough that the letters wouldn’t follow.”

Camille studied him. The man across from her wasn’t a monster. He was a wreck. But the cost of his cowardice had nearly been the death of everything she and Étienne had built.

“Did you work for Groupe Roussel?” she asked. “Did someone pay you to do it?”

Lucas’s head snapped up, genuine confusion on his face. “Roussel? No. God, no. That was all me. All my own dumb idea.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The saboteur mystery remained unresolved, but at least Lucas wasn’t part of it.

“You have to take responsibility,” she said. “You have to go back to Paris, tell the authorities what you did, and pay back what you took.”

Lucas’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t. I have nothing left.”

“You can work it off,” Étienne said, surprising Camille. “You can come back to Le Coq Rouge, but not as my sous-chef. You’ll start as a prep cook, peeling vegetables, scrubbing floors. You’ll earn minimum wage until your debt is paid, and you’ll go to meetings every single night. I’ll help you find a program.”

Lucas stared at him, blinking. “You would take me back? After everything?”

Étienne’s face was still hard, but there was something else in his voice—a tired compassion that Camille had seen him extend only rarely, and never to someone who had wronged him so deeply. “You made a terrible mistake, Lucas. But you’re not the first person to lose yourself in a bad bet. I’ve seen chefs destroy themselves in every way imaginable. What matters now is whether you’re willing to get up again.”

Lucas’s shoulders shook. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing dust and tears across his cheek. “I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

“You don’t have to be strong alone,” Camille said, sliding a napkin toward him. “You have us. That’s the part you forgot.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded photograph—the one they’d taken on opening night, before all of this. The staff held up their arms in triumph, the kitchen glinting behind them. Lucas was in the front row, grinning wide, a whisk in his hand.

He looked at it for a long moment. Then, slowly, he picked it up and clutched it to his chest.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I’ll come back. I’ll try.”

Étienne extended a hand. Lucas took it, and Étienne pulled him to his feet, steadying him when he swayed.

“The first meeting is in two hours,” Étienne said. “There’s an English-language group near the train station. We’ll need to find you a place to stay for the night, settle your affairs here, and then fly back day after tomorrow. Can you manage that?”

Lucas nodded, wiping his nose. “I can manage that.”

Camille watched the two men stand together, chef and former sous-chef, bound now by something stranger than trust—a shared need to salvage what remained. She felt a flicker of something she hadn’t expected: hope, not just for Lucas, but for the fragile family they were building.

She turned to Étienne. “We should call Marc. Tell him we’re bringing dinner home.”

Étienne’s lips curved, the first hint of warmth returning to his face. “He’ll be relieved to hear it.”

They stepped out of the café into the brutal Moroccan sun. Lucas shielded his eyes, swayed, then looked back at the café that had been his prison. He didn’t say anything. He just squared his shoulders and followed them into the crowd.

But as they walked, Camille felt it again—that prickle at the back of her neck. The sensation of being watched. She turned sharply, scanning the rooftops and windows, but saw nothing but heat shimmer and the endless hive of the medina.

Someone had been following them since they landed. She was certain of it now. And whoever they were, they weren’t done.