Helping my neighbor sort her mail, I didn’t think that simple gesture would upset my life. Three years later, his disappearance was going to put me at the heart of an accusation I never imagined.
My name is Claire, I’m 30 years old and I live alone in a small house on the narrow porch.
Three years ago, I began to notice that my neighbor’s mail was piling up in her mailbox. Envelopes crowded, never open. Every day, passing by, something shakes my heart.One night I knocked on his door.
Mrs. Lefèvre opened me. She was wearing a vest despite the heat. She seemed more embarrassed than fragile.
“It’s become a little difficult lately,” she whispered.
