“There’s some people there. Star…”

“Brake. Brake now.”

“Star—they’ll see. You’re covered in blood. They’ll—”

“Stop. Right here. I’ll fire on the count of three. One. Two…”

Gini stopped. They were right outside Madame Duval’s building. Pascal and Marianne were about ten yards behind the car, on the sidewalk, on her side of the car, so she could see them advance in her side mirror.

“Star, wait…” Another few seconds and they would have passed the car, passed the Duval building, turned into Helen’s building. They were still talking, laughing, they might notice nothing. “Star—you don’t want trouble now. Just—”

He had reached across, snatched the keys out of the ignition, and was already out of the door. Gini kept her eyes fixed on the wing mirror. She could hear Marianne’s high, childlike voice. Her tiny triangular-shaped face was still lifted to her father’s. She was wearing navy woolen tights, a navy-and-red-plaid pleated skirt, a navy reefer jacket. Her dark hair had been newly cut with bangs, in a bob. Her gray eyes, so like her father’s, were still raised to his. She is just nine years old, Gini thought. Star was closing the passenger door, walking around to the sidewalk; just another few seconds. They still might not notice him. Provided she stayed in the car, provided Pascal did not see her, if she didn’t move and Star didn’t speak—please God, Gini thought.

One yard; half a yard. Go on, she thought—walk on by.

“Mais regarde, Papa—cet homme-là…” Pascal’s reaction speed, honed from years in war zones, was very swift. Even before Marianne’s footsteps faltered, before she began on that high puzzled remark, Pascal had halted, turned, scooped Marianne into his arms. He was starting to turn, starting to move away as Star got to her door, opened it, and said: “Okay, Gini—get out.”

Gini did not move. She could see Star’s white face bent toward her, leaning into the car. She could see the gun—and she thought that he was blind as well as deaf. He hadn’t heard the sirens, he couldn’t see Pascal or Marianne, if she could just give them another fifteen seconds, twenty—that would be enough. She stared at the gun, waited to hear the retreating footsteps. There was no sound of footsteps, just a terrible white and endless silence. Then Star began to scream. His scream jolted her heart, echoed along the street.

“Out of the fucking car, out, now. You get out or I blow your fucking head off—out, out!”

She slid out fast: speed, not delay, might be the answer. She twisted out of the car and up, almost into Star’s arms, and he was yanking her arm up behind her back, jabbing the gun in her neck. From the corner of her eye she could see Pascal, four feet to her left, clasping Marianne in his arms, one arm locked around the child’s waist, one hand, fingers spread, pressing her face against his shoulder. One tiny flashing frame of film: she saw his face, white, intent, poised, the pre-firing-line look. Had Star seen them? Was he aware they were there?