It was a man I had never seen, mid-fifties, weathered, in a dark cap.
And Mireille was leading him into my kitchen like she’d done it before.
He went straight to the porcelain jar and inspected it.
He handed her a small foil-wrapped package.
And then, before he left, he turned and looked directly up at the outlet where I’d hidden the camera — as if he’d known exactly where to find it — and pointed.
Mireille crossed to the outlet.