Read Chapter 34: The Locket Returns

The drive back from the library had been a blur of snow and silence, the kind of silence that felt heavier than any words either of them could have spoken. By the time they pulled into the chalet’s driveway, the sky had turned a bruised purple, and the wind was already beginning to howl through the pines.

Antoine killed the engine and sat for a moment, both hands still gripping the wheel. “We leave in an hour,” he said. “I’ll pack the truck. You grab the files we’ll need from the study.”

Camille nodded, already reaching for the door handle. The cold hit her like a wall, stealing the breath from her lungs as she hurried up the steps. Inside, the chalet felt smaller than it had this morning, the walls pressing in with the weight of everything they were about to do.

She set her purse on the kitchen counter and moved toward the study, but her eye caught on Antoine’s winter gloves—the thick leather pair he’d worn on their snowshoe expedition—lying on the bench by the front door. They were half-turned, the cuffs gaping open, and something glinted inside.

Her heart stuttered.

She crossed the room without thinking, her fingers already reaching into the glove before her mind could catch up. The metal was cool and familiar against her palm. She pulled it out and stared at it: her grandmother’s locket, its delicate chain tangled around her fingers, the tiny engraving of a lily visible in the dim light.

Camille’s hand closed around it so tightly that the edges bit into her skin. She stood there, frozen, the accusation she had flung at Antoine days ago echoing in her ears with sickening clarity. *You took it. You went through my things.*

She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the floorboards as he came down the hallway. “Camille? I packed the thermal blankets. Do you—” He stopped when he saw her standing there, her fist pressed against her chest.

“It was in your glove,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Antoine’s brow furrowed. “What?”

She opened her hand, let the locket swing gently between them. The chain caught the light, refracting it in thin ribbons across the wall. “My locket. It was inside your glove.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then something shifted in his expression—not guilt, but understanding. His eyes widened slightly, and he took a step closer. “The night of the storm, the night we first talked. I left my gloves on your nightstand when I was fixing the window draft. I remember—I knocked something over, but it was dark and I thought I’d just hit the lamp base.”

Camille’s throat tightened. She remembered that night too. She’d been half-asleep, disoriented, and in the morning, her locket had been gone. She’d searched everywhere—under the bed, in her suitcase, in the bathroom—and when she’d found nothing, the suspicion had crept in like a draft under a door. She had accused him with such certainty, such self-righteous anger.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she heard herself ask, though she didn’t know what she was really asking. Why hadn’t he defended himself? Why had he let her believe he was a thief?

Antoine ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she’d come to recognize as his tell for discomfort. “What was I supposed to say? That I’d accidentally stolen your grandmother’s locket while trying to keep the windows from rattling?” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “You already thought I was guilty. Nothing I said would have changed that.”

Camille closed her eyes. The shame was a hot, coiling thing in her chest, worse than the cold outside. She had been so quick to judge him, so eager to see him as the antagonist in her story. She had packed her suspicions neatly into a box labeled *him* and never once considered other explanations.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words clumsy and inadequate. “I should have believed you. I should have—I don’t know. Thought it through.”

Antoine crossed the room slowly, his movements careful, as if she were a startled animal. When he reached her, he didn’t touch her. He just stood close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“Camille,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

She forced herself to meet his eyes. There was no anger there, no resentment. Just something soft and patient that made her throat ache.

“I forgive you,” he said. “I forgive you.”

The words released something she didn’t know she’d been holding. She let out a shaky breath and reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. The locket was still in her other hand, warm now from her grip, and she pressed it against her sternum.

“I’ve been so afraid,” she admitted. “Afraid that I didn’t actually know you. Afraid that I’d trusted the wrong person again.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ve been afraid too.” He paused, and then his mouth curved into the faintest smile. “But if we’re going to drive into a snowstorm tonight to find a woman who might be able to clear my name, I’d rather do it with someone who knows I’m not a thief.”

Camille laughed—a small, surprised sound that caught in her throat. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She shook her head, but the tension in her shoulders had begun to ease. She looked at the locket again, at the lily her grandmother had gifted her on her sixteenth birthday, a symbol of resilience and new beginnings. It seemed almost poetic that she should have it back now, on the night they were about to risk everything.

“I should pack,” she said.

Antoine’s hand tightened around hers. “One thing first.”

He led her to the kitchen, where he pulled down two glasses from the cabinet and produced a bottle of red wine from the pantry. It was a cheap Merlot, the kind you’d buy in bulk at a corner store, but he poured it with the ceremony of a sommelier.

“What are we celebrating?” Camille asked. “The fact that we’re about to flee the province?”

His lips quirked. “We’re celebrating the fact that you found your locket.” He handed her a glass. “And the fact that you trusted me enough to tell me you were sorry. That’s not nothing.”

Camille took the glass, the warmth of the wine seeping through the crystal—or maybe that was just the warmth spreading through her chest. She clinked her glass against his.

“To confessions,” she said.

“To second chances,” he replied.

They drank. The wine was rough and tannic, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way Antoine looked at her, like she was worth the risk he was taking. What mattered was the way she finally felt like she could breathe.

Camille set her glass down and glanced toward the window. The snow was falling faster now, tiny white motes swirling in the glow of the porch light. Somewhere beyond the village, a road was waiting for them, and beyond that, a woman named Magalie Bélanger who might hold the key to everything.

“We should go soon,” she said quietly.

Antoine nodded. “Five minutes. Then we head out.” He paused, tilting his head toward the locket in her hand. “Maybe keep that somewhere safe this time.”

Camille looked down at the chain and felt a small smile tug at her lips. “I’ll wear it,” she said. “It’s been too long since I felt it against my skin.”

She fastened the clasp around her neck, the metal cool against her collarbone, and then she looked up at Antoine. The locket settled against her chest, heavy with memory and promise.

“I’m ready,” she said.

Antoine grabbed his gloves from the bench—checking them this time, she noticed—and pulled open the door. The wind rushed in, cold and sharp, carrying the scent of pine and snow.

Camille followed him out into the dark.