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if she was related to Laura R. Campion,
     or whether the woman’s middle name was Regina. She’d only been twenty-five when she’d passed, not so unusual back then. Perhaps
     she’d perished in childbirth as so many women from those times had. On discovering this grave marker one morning while walking
     around the estate, she’d eagerly set out to find other Campions buried here. There were none, though other family names were
     repeated across the burial plots. She’d researched Laura R. Campion on the Internet and at the library but found nothing.
     Thomas Campion had been a poet born in the 1500s, and one of his best-known works had referred to a woman named Laura, but there
     was no connection that Reggie could see.
    Walking back to the house she thought of her family, at least the one she used to have. She was the only one left, that she
     knew of, anyway. Her family tree was a bit complicated. Because of that there was a hole in her chest through which nothing
     could pass. It was a total dead zone. Each time she tried to come to grips with what was motivating her to travel the world
     in pursuit of evil, the zone repelled her, never allowing her closure, never allowing her a free breath.
    After fetching her things from the house she began the drive back to London. More meetings at Harrowsfield would come. Intelligence
     and background briefs digested down to the smallest detail. A plan would finally evolve and they would refine it, attempting
     to massage out all possible errors. Then when preparations were complete she would travel to Provence and attempt to kill
     another monster. In that simple equation Regina Campion would have to find all the solace she was ever likely to possess.

CHAPTER

    8
    S HAW WAS IN P ARIS , just having finished an intense day of prep work. He changed into long shorts and a loose-fitting white T-shirt and went
     for a run along the Seine, passing the Jardin des Tuileries, the Orangerie Museum, and the Grand Palais. His feet pounded along the Avenue de New York before he cut across a bridge, passed over the famous river that bisected Paris, and a few minutes
     later ran underneath the wide base of the Eiffel Tower. He slowed, jogging through the green space before picking up his pace
     again. Eventually he ended up in the Saint-Germain section of Paris, on the Left Bank where his small hotel was situated.
     He normally preferred the adjacent Latin Quarter while in the city, but Frank had made other arrangements.
    He showered, changed his clothes, and met Frank for dinner at a restaurant near the Orsay Museum. They sat in the rear corner
     of the outside eating area, which was cordoned off from the sidewalk by rectangular flower planters set on tall wrought-iron
     stands. Before leaving Frank gave him a slip of paper.
    “What’s this?”
    “A phone number.”
    “For who?”
    “Just call it.”
    Frank wedged his hat down on his head and walked off. Shaw could see him pause at the doorway to light one of his favored
     small cigars before quickly disappearing into the mass of people threading their way along the crowded street.
    Shaw walked back to his hotel, trying to lift his spirits by absorbing the magic of one of the most enchanting cities on earth,
     but the effect was exactly the opposite. It was in a hospital in Paris, where he was fighting for his life after having his
     arm nearly hacked off by a neo-Nazi, that he’d learned of Anna’s death. It was shortly after he’d asked her to marry him,
     and she’d said yes. She was a gifted linguist and had actually said yes in multiple languages. Shaw had even gone to the little
     town in Germany where her parents lived to formally seek her father’s permission for his daughter’s hand in marriage.
    And then she was dead.
    Shaw’s path took him along the river. He crossed over to the island where Notre Dame Cathedral stood. It had been recently
     cleaned, centuries of grime scraped off with pressurized water. For some reason