Free The Returned by Seth Patrick Page A

answers, but there’s no need for you to be afraid. What’s happening to you is
miraculous, however you choose to believe it’s come to be. Someone is watching over you.’
    She looked at Claire, lost. ‘I just want a normal life, like before.’
    My little girl
, Claire thought. How could Léna and Jérôme not see that? How could they deny her? She wrapped her daughter in her arms and renewed her vow to keep her
safe. Whatever happened.
    Soon after Pierre left, Camille went to her room again to try and get some sleep. Claire made a start on preparing dinner, and as she did she realized she was smiling: making
dinner for Camille. Her worries about Léna were still with her, yes; but those were everyday worries, and miracles always won out over the mundane.
    She went upstairs to freshen up, but as she reached the doorway to her own bedroom she stood dumbfounded, staring. The drawer with the photo albums was open; the album they had shown Camille had
been torn into pieces and strewn across the bed, alongside another one that contained pictures of Léna.
    Cuttings and photographs alike had been torn up; Léna at every age between the time of the crash and now. Everything Camille had missed.
    Claire stared at the destruction for a long time, appalled that Camille would do such a thing. Resentment was inevitable, she thought, but even so. This was unacceptable.
    She went to Camille’s door and opened it carefully in case she was asleep. Her daughter was sitting on her bed staring at the wall, her expression blank.
    ‘Camille?’ There was no movement, no answer. ‘
Camille?
’
    Then her daughter’s eyes seemed to focus. She looked around herself, disoriented, before turning to face her mother. After a few seconds, she smiled. ‘What?’
    ‘Sorry, were you trying to sleep?’
    ‘Yes, but no luck. What is it?’
    ‘Did you . . . did you go into my bedroom?’
    ‘No,’ said Camille.
    ‘Please,’ said Claire. ‘You can be honest. Tell me if you . . . touched anything.’ She recalled the blank look on Camille’s face as she’d entered the bedroom,
and thought of sleepwalkers. ‘Maybe you don’t remember?’
    ‘I swear, Mum, I haven’t been out of the room. I promise. Why are you asking?’
    Claire looked at her daughter for a long moment before shaking her head. She was telling the truth, Claire decided. The truth, as far as Camille was aware of it. ‘No reason,’ said
Claire.
    There was no need to tell her, Claire thought to herself; no need to tell anyone.
    She fetched a bin bag and returned to her bedroom to tidy the mess. As she collected the ripped pieces, she stopped when she realized the covers of the albums had also been torn in two. One was
thick vinyl-covered card; the other was leather. Torn, just as easily as the paper of the photographs.
    She put it all in the bin bag out of her sight, not wanting to think about it.
    Because there was no need to worry. No need to worry at all.

15
    Hell of a day, Inspector Laure Valère thought. The night before had been interesting, with the Costa man vanishing after setting his home on fire and almost taking his
neighbour’s house along for the ride. Then this morning, the old man had been found. A phone call came in from the technicians at the dam, and Laure, as the senior officer on duty, had packed
Alcide and Bruno off to handle the scene. She’d called Captain Pellerin at home to let him know – Thomas liked to be kept up to date on anything significant, even when, as this morning,
he’d been off duty.
    Laure had been living in the town for nine years now, and Michel Costa had only been the second suicide at the dam in all that time. That struck her as odd. Perfect location for the suicidal,
offering great views and melodrama for those wanting to make a statement on their way out.
    And certainty of death, of course. A little messy, from the sound of Alcide’s voice when he’d called in.
    The mess had kept coming, though.
    The attack at the