Lucy glanced at her watch. “That’s in fifteen minutes!”

“You’ve got to hurry,” said Elizabeth. “Are you going to give them the duffel bag?”

Lucy hesitated. The bag would absolutely have to go to Sylvie’s parents eventually, but perhaps not just yet. A collection of sleazy sex toys wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you wanted to present to the grieving parents of a young woman.

“Oh, I don’t want to cart it around Paris,” said Lucy, hedging.

Elizabeth’s interest was piqued. “What’s in it?”

“Just tampons and cigarettes and gym gear.”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, sounding disappointed.

“And a few sex toys,” said Lucy.

“Why am I not surprised?” asked Elizabeth with a sigh, ending the call.

Lucy made a quick stop at the reception desk and handed over the bag, then called Bill as she hurried out of the hotel and into a cab. He agreed to meet her at Montparnasse station, and true to his word, she found him waiting for her at the main entrance. They had only minutes to spare before the train from Chartres was due to arrive.

Even though she’d never met them, Lucy had no trouble identifying Monsieur and Madame Seydoux when they debarked from the train; they wore their grief as plainly as their practical tan raincoats and sensible shoes. Monsieur Seydoux was tall, and his gray hair was cut military-style. He held himself stiffly, as if he feared he might explode if he relaxed. Madame was much shorter and rounder, her hair dyed strawberry blond, and she held on tightly to her husband’s arm. Lucy noticed she’d tucked a black and beige scarf into the neckline of her coat. It seemed that Frenchwomen had an appropriate scarf for every occasion, including a trip to the morgue.

“Nous sommes les parents d’Elizabeth Stone, la camarade de chambre de votre fille,” said Lucy, who had checked her dictionary for the term for roommate and had practiced the sentence. “Je m’appelle Lucy, et mon mari est Bill.”

Monsieur and Madame stared at them, clearly wondering what on earth they were doing here at the station, meeting them.

“Pas de police? Pas d’autorités?” Monsieur asked, puzzled.

“Non,” responded Lucy. “Nous voudrions vous aider,” she added, hoping she was saying they wished to be of service.

Monsieur responded with a barrage of French, which Lucy did not understand, and she decided to admit defeat. “Do you speak English?” she asked.

“A leetle,” said Monsieur.

The conversation continued in a mixture of French and English, with many stops and starts, as Lucy and Bill led the Seydouxes to the taxi rank, where Monsieur gave the driver the address of the morgue. The driver emitted a sympathetic sigh before shifting into drive and diving into the constant stream of traffic.