Laurie Graham

The 500-franc note wouldn’t fit into the battered, metal box. I could stuff it almost all the way through the slot, but it wouldn’t drop. Visitors to the Eglise St-Sulpice filed by, and as I wrestled with the stubborn clump of paper, I felt the look of suspicion in what I imagined as their frugal French eyes.

The message on the answering machine comes in a rush. I recognize my mother-in-laws voice but can decipher only the final three words: “Burning. Find Bob.”