She leaned against the car, hugging herself, and let out a sigh as the police dragged Chevrolet away. If the necklace wasn’t with Chevrolet or Linville, she was out of ideas. She rubbed the goosebumps from her arms, feeling just as confused and shell-shocked as she did on that day that she’d witnessed the murder. She’d felt so cold, until that woman had brought that tea to warm her up, and . . .

Could it possibly be?

Bayans came over to her.

“Marie Antoinette!” she cried.

“Who?”

“The woman! On the balcony! Dressed like Marie Antoinette!”

He chuckled, “Mme St. James, there were about thirty women dressed like—”

“Yes. But the old lady! Remember? She’d put her arm around me, and . . . it has to be her!”

Bayans stared. Yes, she probably should’ve looked before she leapt, considering her last two ideas for the necklace hadn’t really panned out, but this time, everything seemed to fall into place. And it seemed to be doing so for Bayans, too. He eagerly paged through his notepad. “Charlotte Bisset. Six Rue de Cygnes, Paris.” He snapped his fingers for the police, “Come on boys. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Can I come?” she asked.

“Nice try,” he headed for his patrol car. “Can I have an officer give you a ride back to your hotel, Mme St. James?”

As the patrol car drove off with Chevrolet inside, and she looked around, it hit her. She was free. And in the city of her dreams. And right now, there was absolutely nothing holding her back. No police or job obligations or romantic entanglements or weighty itinerary telling her where she needed to be at every moment. The sun was shining, and there was plenty of time left in the day. Everything she’d ever wanted was waiting for her, and all she had to do was seize it.

She smiled. “No. But I’ll take a ride to Notre Dame, instead.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

On her last day at Le Bonne Auberge, the newspapers blared the headlines: Police a arrêté le voleur Madame Royale. Yes, the police had found the woman, Charlotte Bisset, to be in possession of the necklace. In fact, she was wearing it when she answered the door for the police and was a bit confused. According to Bayans, the eighty-three-year-old woman may have been suffering from a bit of dementia, because she didn’t seem to understand what had been going on. Her explanation? She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten it and had just assumed it was a party favor.

Diana didn’t care to argue. She was simply glad to put it all behind her.

Bright and early that morning, Diana signed her divorce papers, sealed the envelope, and left it with the concierge to send back to America. When she walked away from the papers, she felt strangely light. She wheeled her suitcase out to the curb and stood in the bright sunlight, feeling like she was at a crossroads. Another Sliding Doors moment—like whatever she did at this moment would have a profound effect on her.