In everything I recounted, there were clues. This was Elodie's idea; a shock, I never sought this. A droll sense of irony; I came to Paris for a fresh start. I drove from Sainte Maxime to this beach and confronted history. Old recollections niggled and gnawed, they itched like needles under the skin. A ghost haunted my thoughts, Anne-Pierre, and I could not exorcise her. Memories rolled
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