I don’t follow her gaze. “I’ve been coming for thirty years. People remember.”
“Do they remember your wife, too?”
I refuse to let her see my face contort. My stride doesn’t falter. “Some of them, perhaps.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can feel her working up to something. The next question. One little pinky toe sneaking over the line I’ve drawn in the sand.
“Did you bring her here often?” she asks.
I nod grimly. “Every summer.”
“She must have loved it.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Because yes, Elena loved it. Just like Rae, she loved the croissants and the cobblestones and the smell of grapes ripening in the sun. She loved this village. Most of all, she loved the man I became when I was here.
And then I killed her anyway.
Net: 250g | Lot: 0119
AVIS: Glass jar. Handle with care. If d
