Justine Holliday was young and single, in Paris to follow the dream. She was a fan of Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein. She knew her way around the City of Light. She was writing a memoir—can you imagine that? Trying to, at least. She had money, some from her family, some that she’d saved, a minuscule amount from an advance against the sale of the book, and had taken a flat in the 7th Arrondissement, which was more affordable than some of Hemingway’s old stomping grounds, but still expensive enough for an expat to be safe and anonymous.

Justine Holliday was from Hollywood, Florida (how silly of my parents—we were known as the Hollidays from Hollywood). She’d grown up in a normal, middle-class house with a screened-in back porch with a pool, the only way to keep their two small dogs safe from alligators. They’d had a normal, middle-class, know-everyone-in-your-town upbringing. Her mother made cookies for the school bake sale. Her father coached the Little League teams. Her older brother was a high school football star who worked at a car dealership now, was married to his prom queen date, a girl he’d known since they were thirteen, and had a baby on the way.

Justine Holliday was blissfully, completely, emptily normal. She had her whole life stretched out in front of her. She was in Paris to write, had a handsome young man named Constantine Raffalo buying her champagne, and was currently experiencing a decidedly non–Justine Holliday emotion, a small tingle squeaking up her spine that said, “Go to bed with him. It will be fun.”

Perhaps the enjoyment of sex with relative strangers should be part of Justine Holliday’s life. Yes, an enjoyment, but plain-Jane vanilla missionary sex was Justine’s thing, with maybe a hint of tie her up and ride ’em cowgirl, if she knew you very, very well and had been charmingly overserved.

Yes. There. That worked.

Justine was simple and carefree and looking for a good time, and shook her black hair off her face.

Justine wasn’t a murderer.

“Tell me about growing up all over the world,” Justine said to Constantine, leaning forward just a bit. “It sounds terribly exciting.”

“You have the terrible part right.” Constantine laughed. “Every time I had to pack up my model airplanes and stuffed bears into this old green duffel of my dad’s, I thought, ‘This is the last time.’ Of course it wasn’t. We never stopped moving.”

“And your mother? Did she enjoy moving house and having new adventures?”