Why? he mused. So many women dyed their hair. Maybe it was because she was his kid sister. He simply could not imagine her growing old. Her face was still lovely. Perhaps it was even lovelier than it had been in her twenties or thirties, because her bone structure had such class. He never tired of gazing at Mélanie. Everything about her was small, feminine, delicate. Everything about her-the dark green eyes, the beautiful curve of a nose, the startling white smile, the slim wrists and ankles-reminded him of their mother. She didn’t like being told that she looked like Clarisse. She had never liked it. But to Antoine it was like their mother peeping out from Mélanie’s eyes.

The Peugeot gathered speed, and Antoine guessed they’d probably be there in less than four hours. They had left early enough to beat the traffic. Despite her questions, he hadn’t breathed a word about their destination. He had just grinned. “Pack enough for a couple of days. We’re going to celebrate your birthday in style.”

There had been a minor problem with Astrid, his ex-wife. A little smoothing out to do. That long weekend was normally “his.” The kids were supposed to be leaving Astrid’s parents’ place in the Dordogne to come to him. He had been firm on the phone. It was Mel’s birthday, she was forty, he wanted to make it special for her, she still wasn’t over Olivier, she was going through a bad patch. Astrid’s voice: “Oh, merde, Antoine. I’ve had the kids for the past two weeks. Serge and I really need some time for ourselves.”

Serge. Even the mere name made him cringe. A photographer in his early thirties. The muscular, rugged outdoor type. He specialized in food. Natures mortes for luxurious cookbooks. He spent hours trying to get pasta to glisten, veal to look savory, fruit to look luscious. Serge. Every time Antoine shook his hand when he came to pick up the children, he was confronted with the hideous recollection of Astrid’s digital camera and what he had discovered in its memory card while she was out shopping that fateful Saturday.