A few days later…
The municipal archives are located in a stately old building that reminds me of medieval times. Marble floors, high ceilings, shelves stacked with paper and decay. I present my credentials—Harvard Business School graduate, independent researcher—and flash my most trustworthy smile.
I’m granted access to the digital records and microfilm.
It takes hours to comb through the data, and even longer to decode the tangle of French bureaucracy, but I find it.
Thierry Devereaux. Melanie Devereaux. My parents.
Deceased. Twenty-two years ago.
Listed cause of death: Carbon monoxide poisoning due to a malfunctioning fireplace in their countryside home.
I spot a red-stamped note buried in the scanned police report that says:Investigated due to unusual gas line cuts. Case closed.
I sit back in my chair, heart in my throat.
Someone tampered with the scene.
Buried deeper in the probate filings, I find a list of donations made from the Devereaux estate after their deaths. Charities with vague names and shadowy board members.I search through them; the trails appear to have gone cold.
Except for one.
Ivanov Holdings Donor Acknowledgment—Foundation Saint-Laurent. A shell charity registered in Luxembourg but closed two years later.
I stare at the screen, jaw clenched.
The Ivanovs.
I knew it was a possibility, I just didn’t expect to find it so easily.
I screenshot everything and save it to a secure, encrypted folder titled, “Devereaux.” Seeing my surname feels foreign to me, like a ghost tapping me on the shoulder.
In that moment, I don’t feel like Astrid Jones anymore.
It’s dark by the time I leave the archives. The streetlamps reflect off wet cobblestone, a chill in the air causing me to tug my coat tighter as I make my way back to the hotel.
Just before I reach the corner, I pass a man in a dark tailored suit holding a briefcase. He has a sharp jawline and chiseled features. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps on walking.
Still, my breath catches.
For a brief second, I wonder if it’s the man from the plane. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s gone. Even though I know it wasn’t him, my skin prickles anyway, and I walk faster.
Back in my hotel room, I drape my soaked coat over the chair and plug in my laptop. The Ivanovs are involved in some way. I don’t have proof of guilt yet, but I have suspicion.
I sit back, exhaling.
If my parents were murdered—and I’m starting to believe they were—somebody made damn sure to cover their tracks, to ensure no one would ever find out. Someone who profited from their deaths.
And now that I’ve found this breadcrumb, I can’t stop looking. I won’t.
My mind racing, I slip out of my clothes and step into the shower. The hot water scalds the chill from my skin, but it can’t touch the deeper cold settling into my bones.
I wrap myself in one of the hotel robes and sit cross-legged on the bed, my laptop warming my thighs.
I begin updating my notes.
At the top of the document, in bold, capital letters, I type my birth name: ASTRID DEVEREAUX.
