“I’m sorry, dear,” the woman next to her said, still patting her hand. “I don’t think the poor love speaks any French. I think she’s in shock. She was jabbering on in English when I found her.”

I was? Diana thought. She couldn’t remember any of that, either. The only thing in the center of her mind, almost in a spotlight, was the outline of the dead body on the concrete below.

The man sat down beside her and flipped her his credentials. All she saw, though, was the dead body. He smelled vaguely of tobacco, a scent she got a lot of in her nostrils since she was close to hyperventilating. “I am Lieutenant Pierre Bayans, of the Prefecture de Police of Paris. You found the body?”

She nodded, rubbing her hands furiously over her bare arms to warm up.

“Oh, the poor thing’s clearly upset. Do you have to do this to her now?” the older woman said. “She’s—”

“Excusez-moi, Madame, would you be so kind as to get the lady a cup of tea from inside?” he said brusquely.

The woman hesitated as if she didn’t want to miss a bit of the action. “Well . . . yes. I suppose.” She stood up and headed away.

“Merci beaucoup,” the lieutenant said, not looking up. “And what is your name?”

“Diana,” she whispered. “Diana St. James.”

“You’re American? And you were attending the ball? Alone?”

She nodded.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me what you saw?” he said, getting his notepad at the ready.

“I honestly didn’t see much at all. I came outside, and I didn’t see anyone, and I went to the railing and looked over. And then I saw him. That was all.”

“That is all?” he asked. She could tell by the way he wrote absolutely nothing in his notebook beside her name that her account was just as unhelpful as she’d thought. “You didn’t see anyone?”

“Not a soul,” she murmured, but the moment she said it, images from before the discovery shook loose in her head and came to the forefront. “Well . . . I saw a few couples together, on different parts of the balcony, but I didn’t get a good look at them. And—”

She stopped. Yes, now, more and more was coming back to her.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“There were some younger, rather drunk people, who ran out onto the balcony before I did. But they headed a different direction from where . . .” She pointed to the other side of the balcony. After that, no more flashes of inspiration struck her. Again, images of Luc’s dead body crowded out all calm, logical thought. “That’s all.”

“Had you seen the victim before?”

She stiffened. She knew she should probably tell the truth, but wouldn’t that make her a suspect? The first thing out of her mouth was, “I . . . don’t think so.” Then, she thought better of it. There was a good chance someone would’ve have seen the two of them, dancing together. The police would put two and two together and wonder why she’d lied. “I mean . . . I didn’t really get a good look at the body. I danced with a man in the ballroom. It might’ve been him.”