Why did I phrase that in the form of a question? What am I, on Jeopardy?

He leaned over his desk and scribbled something down. “And where are you staying?”

“Le Bonne Auberge.”

“All right, Mme St. James, we’ll be sure to let you know if anything like that shows up,” he said, lacing his fingers in front of him. “And you be sure to let us know if you find that necklace.”

He smirked.

She didn’t.

She practically ran out of there, barely stopping to wave at the man at the desk who’d let her in the front doors.

Of course, when she got to the front curb, the shuttle was gone. She could hardly blame the man. It’d been way longer than fifteen minutes after all.

But she wanted to get as far away from Versailles as possible, as quickly as possible. She needed to get to Bronson Moreau. Grabbing her phone, she jabbed a call into the hotel. As she looked back at the enormous building, past the many windows and columns, she couldn’t help feeling like she was being watched.

*

Bronson Moreau, 62 Rue des Martyrs, 6.

She blurted that to the driver of the shuttle, who just looked at her. By then, it’d been marinating in her head for an hour, and she was happy to get it out.

“I did wait for you, you know,” he explained as he pulled from the curb.

She smiled, “I’m sure you did. I realize I was a bit longer than fifteen minutes.”

“Oui, you were,” he said. “But if you’re not going to be long at your next stop, I can wait. Right now, I don’t have any other calls coming in.”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

By then, they were heading through rush hour traffic, and so the drive of only a few miles took just over an hour. Luckily, the driver didn’t talk much, allowing Diana to think about how to approach this man. She certainly didn’t want a replay of her interaction with Veronique Lachance, so she decided to stick to a story that was as close to the truth as possible.

The man’s home was in a section of the city similar to Stéphane’s old home; in fact, it was only around the corner. Oddly enough, it felt like a lifetime since she’d stood outside the wreckage of his home. Back then, her heart had panged with excitement, believing her dreams were about to come true. And now . . .

Everything was different. Bleaker.

Almost as if to confirm the fact, the house was a solid, gray stone edifice, imposing and lacking any charm, like a bank building. She climbed the steps, wondering if that was indicative of the man who owned it.

When she rang the doorbell, it was instantly opened by a young Asian woman in jeans. “Oui?”

“Bonjour. I, um . . . Parlez vous anglaise? Does Bronson Moreau live here?” she asked.

The woman nodded, “Yes, he does. But Monsieur Moreau just returned from work and is indisposed.”