Read Chapter 19: The Testimony

The morning light over Keravel was thin and gray, the kind that made the stone houses look like they were holding their breath. Camille stood outside her father’s door—the rented room above the old chandlery, the one with the salt-cracked shutters—and knocked twice before letting herself in.

Thomas was at the table, a half-eaten bowl of oats in front of him, his hands resting flat on either side like he was steadying himself. He looked older in the daylight. She hated that.

“They’ll tear you apart,” he said without looking up. “You know that.”

“They can try.” Camille sat across from him, sliding the folded council agenda across the table. Her finger tapped the line item: *Water Quality and Marine Operations—Public Statement.* “You show up. You tell them what you saw. What you fixed. What you were ordered not to fix.”

“And when Perrot’s lawyer asks me why I hid for fifteen years?”

“You tell them the truth. That you were afraid. That you had a daughter you didn’t want to lose.” She let that sit. “That’s not a weakness, Papa. It’s a reason.”

He finally looked up. His eyes were the same gray as the morning, but there was something in them she hadn’t seen before—a flicker of resolve, or maybe just exhaustion with the whole damned weight of it.

“Your mother,” he said quietly, “she never forgave me for staying quiet the first time.”

Camille reached across and took his hand. “Then don’t stay quiet now.”

---

The municipal council chamber was a converted fish market hall, all high ceilings and exposed beams that smelled faintly of brine and old dust. A dozen chairs had been arranged in a loose semicircle for the public. Nearly all were filled. Old fishermen, a few shopkeepers, Soizic in the back row with her arms crossed, and Yann near the front, his jacket off, a worn leather satchel on his lap.

Perrot sat at the far end of the council table, flanked by two other members Camille didn’t recognize. His lawyer, Elodie Marchand, was a thin woman in a charcoal suit, her hair pulled back so tight her eyebrows seemed permanently raised. She didn’t stand when Thomas entered. She just watched him, the way a cat watches a bird with a broken wing.

The council president, a man named Férec who ran the local insurance agency, called the meeting to order. He read the agenda in a monotone, then looked at Thomas over his half-moon glasses.

“Monsieur Le Goff. You’ve requested time to address this council. The floor is yours.”

Thomas rose slowly. For a moment he just stood there, gripping the back of his chair. Then he began.

He spoke about the maintenance logs. The rusted valve on the outflow pipe outside Keravel’s processing plant that he’d flagged eleven times over six years. The repeated delays. The “informal notes” from the plant manager—Perrot’s cousin—telling him to prioritize aesthetic renovations over infrastructure repairs. The day in late August when he’d come in to find the pressure gauge reading off the scale, and the water running brown into the bay.

“I knew what it meant,” Thomas said, his voice rough. “If it reached the oyster beds, we’d lose the season. But I was told to sign the inspection as passable. I refused. And the next week, the algae bloom hit. And then they found the contamination in the shellfish. And I was blamed.”

“Objection,” Elodie cut in, her voice like a knife on slate. “Mr. Le Goff is describing events for which he was formally investigated and cleared of criminal liability on procedural grounds—not exonerated. And more importantly, Madame—” she turned to Camille, “—the events he describes occurred over a decade ago. The statute of limitations for environmental nonfeasance in this jurisdiction is five years. Whatever he claims to have witnessed is legally irrelevant.”

A murmur ran through the room. Camille felt her pulse quicken, but she kept her face even.

“With respect, Maître Marchand,” Camille said, stepping forward, “the council called this hearing to examine water quality *now*—specifically, whether Keravel’s current operations meet compliance standards. The council has received our data. The question isn’t what happened in the past. It’s whether the pattern is continuing.”

She nodded toward Yann. He stood, slid a folded nautical map from his satchel, and walked to the front table where he spread it flat, weighing down the corners with two stone paperweights borrowed from the town clerk.

“This is a survey chart of the Keravel Bay, hand-annotated over six years by members of the Le Goff family and a marine biologist named Marianne Aubert.” He pointed to a series of small, coded marks along the eastern edge of the bay, just beyond the visible shoals. “These coordinates track a regular discharge event—one that doesn’t appear in any official report. The source is an unmarked outflow that feeds into a shallow shelf where the water doesn’t circulate. That’s where the toxin levels are highest.”

Elodie didn’t even look at the map. She turned to Férec. “Monsieur President, this document is not notarized, not witnessed, and appears to be a child’s drawing with added handwriting. There is no chain of custody. It proves nothing.”

Perrot leaned forward, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “A map? You’re bringing us a treasure map? Did you also find X-marks-the-spot?” A few of the council members laughed nervously. “Marianne Aubert has been dead for twelve years. Convenient—she can’t confirm it.”

“She died in a diving accident,” Camille said, her voice tight. “The same month she was preparing to file a complaint about water quality with the regional maritime authority. Did your lawyer know that?”

Perrot’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes went flat. “A tragedy. Nothing more.”

The council president raised a hand. “Enough. We’re not going to litigate this in a public hearing.” He looked at the map, then at Thomas, then back at Camille. “The council will consider the materials submitted. Given the complexity, and the legal questions raised, we’ll reconvene in one week. By then, we’ll have independent experts from the regional environmental agency review the data—including this map.” He paused. “If it’s genuine, we’ll act on it. If it’s not, this matter will be closed. Permanently.”

---

The hearing broke up in a shuffle of chairs and murmured conversations. Camille caught Yann’s eye as he carefully refolded the map and slid it back into his satchel. He gave her a small nod—enough.

She was halfway to the door when Soizic caught her arm.

“Le Bozec,” Soizic said quietly. “The old fisherman—the one who used to take your father out to the deep water at night. The one who saw things.”

Camille frowned. “What about him?”

“He was supposed to be here. Said he would.” Soizic’s face was tight with worry. “He’s been gone two days. No one’s seen his boat.”

Camille’s stomach dropped. She looked across the room to where Yann was just stepping through the doorway, winter light slanting across his shoulders.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, catching up to him in the street. “Le Bozec is missing. And you need to know everything—about the USB, the threats, my father’s hiding place. All of it.”

Yann stopped. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Then let’s go find him first. And you can talk on the way.”