Read Chapter 33: The Search Widens

The library in Saint-Rémi smelled of paper dust and cold radiators. A single fluorescent light hummed over three public computers, one of which had a sticky note taped to its screen reading *HORS SERVICE*. Camille slid into the chair at the remaining working terminal while Antoine pulled up a second chair beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

“Magalie Roy,” he said, low. “Let’s start simple.”

Camille’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “If she left a year ago and changed her name, simple won’t find her.”

“Then we get creative.”

She typed the name into a search engine. The results came back thin: a wedding announcement from 2014 that didn’t match the age of the woman in the photograph, an obituary for a different Magalie Roy in Gaspé, a Facebook profile with no profile picture and three followers. Nothing useful.

“She scrubbed herself,” Camille murmured.

“Or she never had a big digital footprint.” Antoine leaned closer, scanning the screen. “Try the address from the back of the photo first. Maybe something is tied to it.”

Camille pulled the torn photograph from her coat pocket. The address was written in faded blue ink, a street name and number in Trois-Rivières. She typed it into the search bar. The results were equally sparse—a property records listing from 1998, a mention in a local forum about a plumbing issue in 2019, and a single entry on a genealogy site, where someone had logged the address as the residence of one “M. Roy,” no first name given.

“That’s got to be her father,” Antoine said. “Or a relative.”

“If she went home, she wouldn’t need an alias.” Camille shook her head. “She’s hiding. That means she’s not with family.”

Antoine was quiet for a moment, then said, “Try provincial records. Marriage, name changes. They’re public after a year.”

Camille navigated to the Quebec civil registry search page. She typed Magalie’s name into the marriage field. Nothing. Then she cleared the fields and typed just the last name, Roy, with a date range starting a year ago. The results loaded slowly, one line at a time, and when they finally appeared, her breath caught.

There it was. A marriage certificate, filed nine months ago in Trois-Rivières, for one Magalie Roy and one Émile Bélanger. The bride’s age matched the woman in the photograph. The date was circled on the back of the photograph.

“She got married,” Camille said.

Antoine stared at the screen. “Under her own name. So she didn’t change it—she just took his.”

“Or she planned to change it and never did.” Camille clicked on the record, hoping for more details. The certificate listed the officiant, the witnesses, and the address where the couple intended to reside: a small town in the next province, in Ontario’s eastern corridor. “Hawkesbury.”

“That’s only two hours from here.”

“But we can’t get there.” Camille felt the hope curdling in her chest. “Not tonight. Not with the storm coming and the roadblocks.”

Antoine sat back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. The fluorescent light made the grey in his stubble more pronounced, and she noticed for the first time how tired he looked, how the last few days had carved lines into his face she hadn’t seen before.

“Then we call her,” he said.

“We don’t have a number.”

“We have a town. And a married name.” He leaned forward again, typing Émile Bélanger Hawkesbury into the search bar. The results were more promising: a listing for a small automotive repair shop bearing Bélanger’s name, complete with a phone number and an address on Main Street.

Camille pulled out her phone. “We call the shop. Ask for Émile. Tell him it’s about a photograph.”

Antoine reached over and put his hand on hers, stopping her. “Wait. If she’s hiding, calling her husband’s workplace could spook her. She might run again.”

“Then we say we’re old friends.” Camille met his eyes. “We know what she looks like. We have a photograph that proves she knew my father. If she ran once, she’ll run again unless we give her a reason to stay and listen.”

Antoine’s jaw tightened. He didn’t let go of her hand. “And if she’s the one who set me up?”

“Then we’ll know soon enough.” Camille’s voice was steady, but her heart was beating hard against her ribs. “I’d rather face her directly than wait for Bouchard to knock on the chalet door tomorrow morning.”

The library’s clock ticked past four. Outside, the sky had taken on a bruised, heavy quality, and the first few flakes of snow had begun to drift against the window. The storm was coming faster than the forecast had promised.

Antoine released her hand. “Fine. But you let me do the talking.”

“You’re the one with a warrant out for your arrest. I think I should be the one on the phone.”

He almost smiled. “Fair point.”

Camille dialed the number from the search results. The phone rang three times, four, and she was about to hang up when a gruff voice answered on the fifth ring.

“Bélanger Réparation.”

“Hello,” Camille said, her French slipping into the Parisian cadence she’d tried to soften since arriving in Quebec. “I’m looking for a woman named Magalie. She may be the wife of Émile Bélanger. We found a photograph of her and we believe she may have information about a friend of ours.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Camille could hear the scrape of a tool against metal, the low hum of a radio playing country music in the background.

“Who is this?” the voice asked.

“My name is Camille Moreau. I’m a translator. I’ve been staying in Saint-Rémi, in the village where Luc Moreau—my uncle—was last seen.” She paused, choosing the next words with care. “We found a photograph of Magalie with Luc. It was hidden in a cabin in the woods. We think she may know what happened to him.”

The silence stretched so long that Camille looked at the phone to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. Then the voice came back, lower now, stripped of its gruffness.

“My wife doesn’t talk about that time. She doesn’t talk about anyone from the village.”

“I understand. But we’re not the police. We’re trying to help a friend who’s been accused of something he didn’t do.” Camille glanced at Antoine. “Magalie might be the only person who can clear his name.”

Another long pause. The radio in the background switched songs, a sad fiddle tune that seemed to underline the weight of the moment.

“Where are you calling from?” the voice asked.

“The library in Saint-Rémi.”

“Then you’re close. But not close enough.” The man cleared his throat. “The storm’s going to hit hard tonight. If you can get to Hawkesbury tomorrow, come to the shop. Ask for Émile. I’ll see if she’s willing to talk.”

Camille’s pulse quickened. “Tomorrow might be too late. There’s a warrant being issued in the morning.”

“Then you’d better drive fast.” The line went dead.

Camille lowered the phone, staring at the screen. Antoine was watching her, his expression unreadable.

“He didn’t say yes,” she said slowly. “But he didn’t say no.”

“So we go tomorrow.”

“If we can get out of Saint-Rémi before the warrant lands.” Camille glanced at the window, where the snow was falling faster now, the flakes fatter, beginning to stick to the pavement. “And if the roads are passable.”

Antoine stood, pushing the chair back with a scrape. “Then we don’t wait for tomorrow. We leave tonight, before the storm closes everything and before Bouchard wakes up.”

Camille looked up at him. The fluorescent light cast shadows under his eyes, but there was something fierce in his expression now, a determination that had been buried under weeks of suspicion and fear.

“We’re leaving the village,” she said. “We’re leaving the chalet.”

“I know.”

“If we do this, there’s no coming back.”

Antoine held out his hand. She took it and let him pull her to her feet.

“Then we don’t come back,” he said. “Not until we’ve found her.”