“I don’t know,” said Elizabeth. “I’m not interested in that stuff.”

“I see,” said Girard, sounding skeptical. He turned to Lucy and Bill. “Your daughter cannot stay here tonight. We must conduct a thorough search of the apartment, and there is also the matter of her emotional well-being. She should not be alone. Can she stay with you?”

“Of course,” said Lucy, thinking of the second sofa in the living room at the apartment. “Can she take a few things? Clothes and a toothbrush?”

“Bien sûr,” agreed Girard. “And before you go, you must all give me your contact information.”

Bill took care of that while Lucy helped Elizabeth gather a few necessities from the ugly 1930s sideboard trimmed with crudely carved wood, where she kept her clothes, tossing them into a duffel bag.

“How long will she need to stay away?” asked Lucy when Elizabeth went into the bathroom to get her toothbrush and other toiletries. Lucy took advantage of this opportunity to question the detective and also asked for one of his cards, for future reference.

“I do not know, madame,” said Girard, stepping close and presenting her with his card. “You must keep an eye on your daughter, take special care of her. What happened to Sylvie was not pretty.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “She was tortured. . . .”

Lucy gasped.

“And then she was killed execution-style. A very professional job.”

“Ohmigod.” Lucy felt the floor shifting beneath her feet. “What was that girl involved in?”

“That, madame, is what we must discover.”

All three were silent in the taxi they took to the apartment, each thinking their separate thoughts. Lucy kept remembering Sylvie as she last saw her, with her blond hair cut in a chic bob, her porcelain skin, those delicately arched eyebrows, and that bemused smile, and struggled to understand why anyone would want to hurt, much less kill, such a beautiful young woman. She held her daughter’s hand tightly, troubled by Girard’s warning, but Elizabeth pulled it away in a gesture of stubborn independence. Lucy knew she had to tell her the truth about Sylvie’s death, but decided to wait until morning, until after she’d had a good night’s sleep. If her daughter could sleep, which Lucy doubted. She knew that Elizabeth took after her and was a light sleeper, unlike Bill, who could sleep through a tornado.

When they arrived at the apartment, the friends were gathered around the kitchen island, sipping herbal tea and recounting their evening activities.

“Chamomile tea?” offered Pam. “I also have Sleepytime, which I brought from home.”

“Sleepytime would be great,” said Lucy. “Elizabeth’s staying with us for a few nights. Her roommate . . .”

“Sylvie?” prompted Sue. “What’s she getting up to?”

“Sylvie had an accident,” began Bill, intending to break the news as gently as possible.

“She was murdered,” Elizabeth announced abruptly. “The police said I can’t stay in my apartment.”