For the last few hours he’d avoided the area near the arcade where Gina Maffucci worked. He knew she’d been brought into the station for questioning, then released. Now he saw a long line in front of Madame Zanto’s booth, fueled by rumors of the arrest there earlier.

He heard mutters of protest as he pushed through the line, but those quieted when they saw the interloper wore a uniform. When the curtains parted and a middle-aged woman stepped out, Francis entered the booth. Inside, Gina had her back to him, cleaning a teacup.

“Please sit, I’ll be right with you,” she said. She turned and nearly dropped the cup. He put a finger to his lips, sat at the little table, and motioned for her to do the same.

“I heard what happened at the station, Mrs. Maffucci,” he murmured.

He expected her to tell him to call to her by her first name. But she only stared at him. Francis cleared his throat nervously and went on. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I would have—”

“What would you have done, Mr. Bacon? The detective asked if I could identify the man who owned the notebook. Which I did. Could you have done that for me?”

“No, of course not. But—”

“Then there’s nothing to apologize for. It was the same man, I recognized him. He didn’t deny the book was his. I only wish they hadn’t made such a scene when he came back here for it. But now it’s done.”

She shook her head. “I wish I’d never told you about that damn book. I should have tried to return it to him directly.”

“But that’s ridiculous! You did the right thing, it was evidence—”

“Evidence of what? He works at the movie studio! That notebook contains ideas for movies, Mr. Bacon.”

“Well, that’s what he claims.”

“Would he be so careless, if it contained evidence he intended to murder those girls?”

“He might be,” Francis replied, with little conviction. “Men sometimes record imaginings of crimes they intend to commit.”

“Do they? Then someone will have to prove it.” Gina’s dark eyes glittered. “Mr. Gerring knows Pin. Did you know that?”

“Did he say how?”

“No. But he looked shocked when he heard my last name. He asked if I was Pin Maffucci’s mother.” Her voice broke. “I—I said I was, and he just seemed…confused. Upset and confused.”

“But don’t you see, this could mean something, too?” Francis tried to choose his words with care. “A grown man, why would he know a boy?”

“From the movie studio. Pin goes there, I’m not sure why. Maybe he was looking for work.” She picked up the teacup, set it back down. “I thought we would be safer here, at least for the summer. We come from Crosby and Oak—Little Hell. I thought this would be a better place.”