VINCENT MOREAU
Three months later, I thought enough time had passed for me to strike.
It was why I sat facing Damian across a grimy café on the outskirts of Vieuti, in the kind of hastily set-up establishment where the coffee tasted bitter and the customers kept their eyes on their own business. If they took note of Damian, no one gave any sign or indication.
The envelope I had with me in my hand was thicker than it should have been, full of glossy snaps and something I'd gone to considerable effort to acquire. The plan had worked quite well so far, and with all deliberation, as I'd promised myself that night when I snuck out of their house while they were both confused over where the other was, Eleanor's underwear in my pocket like a trophy. I had sniffed it for so long that it starte
