Chapter 3: The Ghost of Évian**
The ferry docked in the quiet French town of Évian-les-Bains under the cover of a freezing pre-dawn drizzle. Camille blended into the small group of early-morning commuters, keeping her head low and her hands deep in her pockets.
She followed the instructions burned into her memory during years of quiet evening lessons at their remote cabin. *Third bench past the old mineral springs pavilion. Under the iron plaque.*
Reaching the ornate, rusted iron gazebo, she knelt beside the bench. Her fingers traced the cold underside of the wooden slats until they brushed against a magnetic plastic box. She slid it free and slipped into the shadows behind the stone fountain.
Inside was a faded leather notebook and a train ticket to Lyon, accompanied by an old photograph of a woman with her same hazel eyes and wavy blonde hair. Written on the back in her father’s steady handwriting was a single address and a message:
*“Elena’s work was never about the money. It was about the children who had none. Find Marcus at the St. Jude Archive.”*
Her mother. The mother she had been told died in an automobile accident when Camille was two.
A shadow blocked the amber streetlamp above her. Camille spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs. Standing at the edge of the pavilion was a tall man in a dark trench coat, his face obscured by a brimmed cap.
"You walk quietly, just like your father," the man said. His voice was raspy, worn by decades of cigar smoke.
Camille backed away, her fingers tightening around the brass key. "Who are you?"
May you like
"A friend who owes Arthur Hayes his life," the man said, stepping into the light to reveal an eyepatch and deep laugh lines. "My name is Marcus. And we need to move before the Consortium sweeps this district."
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