349.jpg Online

He saw her from fifty yards away. She was a splash of crimson against the pale limestone of the balustrade. Clara always wore red when she wanted to be found, and never when she wanted to be caught. As he approached, the scent of her perfume—something heavy with jasmine and sea salt—hit him before she even turned around.

She slipped a small, heavy envelope into the pocket of his linen jacket. Her touch was fleeting, a ghost of a movement. "Go to the station. Don't wait for the night train. Take the express to Marseille now." "And you?" 349.jpg

Julian went still. The "349" wasn't a room number or a date. It was a file, a single image captured on a disposable camera that had already changed hands three times in forty-eight hours. "How?" He saw her from fifty yards away