Madame Seydoux clearly mourned her daughter: she’d been quite tearful when Lucy and Elizabeth expressed their condolences. But when they told her about the money Sylvie had hidden, her attitude had changed. That bothered Lucy, who found it unseemly. Kids benefitted financially, sometimes, when their parents died, but it was unusual for a parent to inherit money from a child. Maybe that was it. Maybe there had been a communication gap. Maybe what she was taking for greed was something else. Incredulity. Surprise. Shock. Maybe even the suspicion that Sylvie had been involved in something illegal and that was why she was killed. Now, that was something Lucy could understand, she decided, reluctantly pulling herself out of the steamy bathwater and reaching for a towel.

The apartment was quiet when she made her way down the long hall to the living room, where Bill had pulled out the sleeper sofa and was already sound asleep. She pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him, nestling her back against his chest. He stirred and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer.

It was cozy in bed, and Lucy was tired. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble falling asleep, but she did. The problem, she decided, was her aching legs, a reaction to all that walking. So she got up and tiptoed down the long hall to the bathroom, where she took a couple of ibuprofen.

That should do it, she thought, slipping back between the sheets. This time, when she nestled against Bill, he groaned and flipped over, turning his back to her. Unfazed, she nuzzled against him, slipping her arm around his waist, and closed her eyes. When she had trouble sleeping, she had a trick of picturing the waves rolling in over the rocky shore at Tinker’s Cove. With each breath she took, she imagined the foamy water spreading over the speckled pebbles, and as she exhaled, she pictured the seawater withdrawing in the timeless rhythm of the sea. Tonight, however, other images kept intruding on her visual mantra: the blood that pooled on the floor beneath Chef Larry, the euros pouring out of the envelope onto Sylvie’s bedding, the tidal wave of commuters in the Métro station, and the roar of the motorcycle that carried Elizabeth off into the night.

Checking the time on her phone, she saw it wasn’t all that late, not even eleven. Elizabeth was probably still awake. It wasn’t too late to call and make sure she was okay. Lucy slipped out of bed once again, taking the phone with her into the kitchen, where she made the call.