which could lead to a find, or at the least a published article would mean a promotion to senior curator of antiquities. Otherwise, the museum would not be renewing Sam’s contract. Disturbed by the ultimatum, he nonetheless left the office exhilarated by the possibility of getting his hands on the Dinsmoore journal.

It was then that curiosity reared once more, convincing him go on home to pack and find out why Luc had called from there. Entering the flat on the Septieme Arrondissement, he was greeted by a sight that painfully burned into him like a branding iron. On their kitchen table, the eighteen year-old son of the grocer lay on his back, slack-jawed and panting with lust as Luc vigorously plowed his ass. When Luc finally paused long enough to see Sam standing there, the merde hit the proverbial fan.

"Oh, c'est pas grave, ca. It's just a fling. It means nothing." Luc pleaded, approaching Sam with his dick still stiff and gleaming with lube, underscoring the absurdity of the statement.

Incredulous, Sam's voice rose, "Ca vas pa non? Ce'st baratin!"

"Calme-toi," Luc insisted. "Pourquoi t'es tellement mal vissee?"

Sam threw up his hands, "C'est toujours la meme rengaine. Bien sur c'est ma faute! J'suis fous!" He stormed into their bedroom and with eyes blinded by unexpected tears struggled to stuff his clothes into a couple of bags.

"You behave like, comme tu dis, a petulant schoolboy!"

He pushed his way past Luc and reached the front door.

"You are, comme tu dis, un trou du cul! Va te faire foutre!" Sam spat before slamming the door behind him.

As self-righteous as he felt, however, he wondered if he had simply been too naive, expecting fidelity from Luc. Especially Luc, insidiously arrogant as he was, and frankly, possessing all the profundity of a bumper sticker. Sam figured at least Luc hadn't pulled his favorite dig - that it was his apartment, that Sam was only there grace a lui. And what of Philip's dinner invitation? That didn't take much coaxing. Was Sam being hypocritical by holding Luc to a standard that he now seemed only too willing to compromise with a man he just met? Or was it an unconscious desire to get even? Damn, his life was a freaking mess! He wasn't sure if he still had a boyfriend, if he still had a home. And if this trip didn't pan out, he might not even have a job! Within a couple of days, everything had upended. Sam felt his entire life unraveling around him. All he had left was this tenuous lead to the Box. And he was clinging on to it with both hands.

"Mr. Norris," he called out when he entered the bookshop on Rue Dumaine. The small room appeared to have books advancing from all corners while stacks of files reached all the way up the ceiling.

A slim man with a buzz cut, wearing a pair of filthy jeans and a Coldplay tour souvenir shirt, suddenly appeared from behind a tall shelf and announced himself. "I'm here."

Sam navigated his way through the mess. "I'm Sam Preston. I spoke to you from Paris."

"Yes," Norris nodded. "The Dinsmoore diary. I have it ready for you." He motioned for Sam to follow him further into the recesses of the shop past more and more books.

"Please excuse the disarray. We, uh, the Historic Society that is, had to move most of our records and files here after the, well