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The cabin was warmer than the quay, though not by enough to soften the morning completely. Pistou was on the radiator in his navy scarf, one eye open, as if he had already judged the day and found it beneath further attention. Elodie took off her coat, set the coffee down, and stood for a moment in the middle of the cabin with her phone in one hand and nothing settled in her head except the need to hear one voice that did not belong to Strasbourg. Not for help, she told herself. Just for steadiness.
She called Maëlle. The line rang longer than she expected, and for one brief stupid second she imagined Avignon had vanished simply because Strasbourg had become impossible. Then Maëlle answered, her voice roughened by bakery hours and morning flour.
“Elodie?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds bad already.”
“It isn’t bad. It’s early.”
“That’s not a denial.” She heard something metallic clatter at Maëlle’s end, then Maëlle saying away from the phone, “Not that tray, the other one. No, the round one. Do I have to come there?” Then back again. “All right. What happened?”
Elodie sat at the edge of the bunk. “They’ve changed Georges Keller’s death. What they mean is they changed the story. The body hasn’t moved.”
“The chocolatier.”
“Yes.”
“Changed it to what?”
“Suspicious.”