Chapter 14
The sun had dipped below the rim of the western hills by the time Julian walked out of Saint Jude’s and down the steps toward the street. The air was colder now, smelling of frost and wet asphalt, carrying the distant, hollow whistle of a barge moving down the Seine toward the locks.
He didn't take a taxi. He walked three blocks down the damp sidewalk, his leather shoes clicking against the pavement, his silver-handled cane striking the stone with a rhythmic, measured beat. At the corner of the Quai de la Tournelle, he stopped by the stone parapet that overlooked the river. Below him, the dark water moved in oily swirls, reflecting the amber lights of the bridges that spanned the gray water like a string of lanterns.
From somewhere down by the stone steps near the water’s edge came the high, reedy sound of elderberry wood. It was the same six-note tune—simple, flat, and winding like wire—cutting through the cold evening air with the stubborn persistence of something that refused to be washed away by the tide.
Julian leaned his weight against the stone balustrade, his hands resting on the silver handle of his cane. He didn't turn to look. He knew who was sitting down there in the shadow of the bridge, waiting for the night shift to change and the world to start over again.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old photograph—the one Leo had laid on the white linen table the night before. The creased paper was soft now, worn thin at the edges where his thumb had rubbed against the woman’s smiling face through forty years of closed doors and empty rooms.
He didn't put it back in his pocket. He held it out over the dark water, letting the cold wind catch the edge of the matte paper for one second before his fingers opened and let it fall.
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The photograph drifted down, turning once, twice, like a small white leaf caught in an eddy, before it touched the surface of the river and vanished into the dark current moving toward the sea.
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