Read Chapter 26: The Debt Paid

The call came at 7:12 a.m., just as Camille was stepping off the boat with two cups of coffee. The vibration in her pocket was insistent, foreign—a Paris number she didn't recognize. She set the cups on the dock and answered.

"Ms. Le Goff? This is Dupont et Fils, recouvrement de créances."

The words hit her like cold sea spray. Debt collector. In the chaos of the past week—the viral video, the arrest, the cage, her father's midnight rescue—she'd let the Paris apartment lease slip from her mind. Three months unpaid, plus penalties.

"I'm listening," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

"We've been unable to reach you at your residence. Your landlord has escalated the matter. The full balance is due within ten business days, or we'll be forced to pursue legal action."

She did the math in her head. The savings from her severance package were still mostly intact—she hadn't been paying Paris rent while staying on the boat. But she'd earmarked that money for the fight: legal fees for Yann's defense, a contingency fund in case Keravel tried to sue her for the break-in.

"Ten business days won't work," she said. "But I can offer a payment plan. Half now, the remainder over four months."

A long pause on the line. She could hear keyboard clacking, the shuffle of papers. "That's not standard procedure, Ms. Le Goff."

"Neither is waking up a woman whose father just died to demand money." The lie came out sharper than she intended—her father was very much alive, asleep on the boat twenty feet away. But the collector didn't need to know that. "I'm offering you something workable. Take it or leave it."

More keyboard sounds. "I'll need to speak with my supervisor."

"Then speak." She watched the harbor come to life—the fishing boats heading out, gulls wheeling overhead, the morning light turning the water to hammered pewter. "I'll hold."

Three minutes later, she had a deal. Half the balance transferred by end of day, the rest in four equal installments. She terminated the call, exhaled, and picked up the coffees.

Yann was sitting on the deck when she returned, barefoot, wearing the same sweater he'd had on yesterday. There were circles under his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders seemed lighter since his release. He took the coffee gratefully.

"Everything okay?" he asked. "You look like you just ran a marathon."

"Just Paris catching up with me." She sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "My landlord's debt collector. I sorted it."

"You have the money?"

"A payment plan." She sipped her coffee, let the bitterness ground her. "I'll make it work."

Yann nodded slowly. "If you need help—"

"I don't." She cut him off gently. "I've got this. It's handled."

But something was nagging at her. The debt collector had mentioned her lease had been in arrears for three months. Three months ago, she'd still been employed. She'd been paying rent automatically from her account—until the autopay lapsed when she switched banks during the chaos of her leave. She'd assumed it transferred over. It hadn't.

But the landlord had waited three months to escalate. That wasn't typical. Most landlords filed within two weeks of missed payment.

Which meant someone had been covering for her.

She pulled out her phone and called her father. He answered on the second ring, his voice gruff. "Camille. You're still in one piece?"

"I might ask you the same thing." She forced lightness into her tone. "Listen, Papa. My Paris apartment—"

"I know."

"You know what?"

"The lease." A pause, then a sigh like the groan of old timbers. "When you stopped paying, the landlord called. I told him I'd cover it until you sorted yourself out. Gave him my retirement money."

Her throat tightened. "You did what?"

"Three months of payments. And the penalties when he tried to add those on." He laughed, but it was hollow. "That's why I've been eating tinned sardines and haggling over mooring fees. Not because I'm a miser."

"Papa, you didn't have to—"

"You were drowning, Camille." His voice softened. "I couldn't reach you in the water. But I could reach your accounts. So I did. I figured you'd rather be mad at me than lose your home."

She couldn't speak. The coffee cup trembled in her hand.

"I know you think I left you alone after Maman died," he continued. "And I did. I didn't know how to be there for you, so I stayed away. But I've been watching, Camille. All these years. I had your phone tracked after you moved to Paris—the GPS on your old car, then your phone when you got a new one. I knew when you were struggling. I just didn't know how to help without making it worse."

She thought of the GPS tracker she'd found on his boat—the one that had led him to her in the cage. It wasn't surveillance. It was a lifeline he'd been holding onto for years.

"You paid my rent," she said finally. "That's why you were broke. That's why you sold the fishing gear. That's why—"

"That's why I needed to sell the houseboat." He said it quietly, almost apologetically. "I didn't want to. But I needed money, and it was the only thing of value I had left. I wasn't abandoning you, Camille. I was trying to keep you afloat."

She was crying now, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. Yann put a hand on her back, steady and warm. She leaned into him.

"I've been angry at you for so long," she said. "And you were paying my rent the whole time."

"Don't be angry anymore." His voice cracked. "I'm tired. I just want my daughter back."

She ended the call with promises to visit him later that day, real promises, not the vague deflections she'd been using. Then she sat in silence, Yann's arm around her, watching the harbor.

"Your father's a good man," Yann said quietly.

"He's infuriating and secretive and he tracked my phone without asking." She laughed, wiping her face. "But yes. He's a good man."

They sat for a long moment. The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning mist. Camille thought about everything her father had sacrificed—his retirement savings, his fishing equipment, the houseboat itself—all to protect a daughter who'd been too proud to ask for help. And she thought about what she almost did with that sacrifice. Almost sold the boat. Almost walked away from all of it.

"I'm not selling the houseboat," she said.

Yann turned to look at her. "What?"

"The conservancy needs a permanent base. A place for researchers, for data collection, for water testing." She spoke faster as the idea crystallized. "The boat's perfect—it's got the lab equipment, the cabin space, the mooring in the harbor. We could retrofit it. Make it a floating research center."

"Camille." He was smiling now, a real smile. "You just negotiated with a debt collector and had a breakdown over your father's secret payments, and you're already planning the next move."

"That's what I do." She stood, pulling him up with her. "I make plans. I execute. And I told the debt collector I'd transfer money by end of day, so I need to get to the bank."

"Then what?"

"Then I talk to the conservancy. And my father. And anyone else who'll listen." She looked out at the bay, at the water that was poisoned and beautiful all at once. "We've got witnesses now. Elodie's testimony, Officer Leclerc's records. But we still don't have the waste."

"We'll find it."

"When we do, it's over." She turned to face him. "Perrot's got nowhere left to run. When he's cornered, he'll do something desperate. And that's when we'll catch him."

Yann raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like a plan."

"It's not a plan yet." She grabbed her phone, already dialing. "But it will be."

The call went through. She waited for it to connect, mind racing ahead.

There was a way to end this. An ending that started with bait.

And she knew exactly what to use.