“But . . . just suppose there was something . . . a personal item, maybe a hairbrush or an article of clothing . . .”

He shook his head. “It sounds quite impossible. How would we find a thing like that? And how would we know the material came from Didier? We could go to Sauveterre and find something,” he suggested, sending her a sly look.

That again. He was still determined to make the trip to France.

“Let’s call Madame Olivier and ask her to look in the storeroom where she found the trunk,” Camille suggested.

“It is the middle of the night there.”

She heard the rattle of Julie’s bike outside and went to greet her. “Hey there,” she said brightly. “Did you pass? Are you a tenth grader now—oh my God.” She opened the door wider and Julie walked in. “What happened? Did you fall off your bike?”

“Nothing happened.” Julie kept her eyes down as she walked into the house.

“This is not nothing.” Camille grabbed her daughter by the shoulders. “Sit down. Tell us what’s going on.”

Julie sat on the edge of the sofa. Her backpack was in shreds. Her shirt was torn on one side, her jeans stained with grass and dirt.

Papa came over and sat next to her. “Tell us,” he said.

For a few moments, Julie sat unmoving.

“Your face . . .” Horrified, Camille tipped up Julie’s chin. “How did you get that bruise on your cheek?”

“I—it was an accident,” Julie mumbled. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” Camille said, anger flaring. “Who did this to you?”

“Nobody. Forget it, Mom. Please.”

“I am not going to forget it, and you are going to start talking.” Camille looked at her father. His face was soft with regret. “Sweetheart, tell us. We can’t help you if you don’t tell us.”

“There’s nothing to tell, okay?” Julie snapped. “You want to know who did this? Everybody, that’s who. Everybody hates me. And if you want to help, you’ll send me a million miles away from here.”

“Was it Vanessa?” Camille demanded. “Jana? I’m calling the police.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea,” Julie said. “Let’s turn me into a federal case. Mom, you’re only making things worse. You already made it worse when you yelled at Vanessa at the library.”

Papa got a gel pack from the freezer. “Hold this on your cheek, choupette.”

Nauseated by panic, Camille reached for her phone. Julie grabbed her hand. “Okay, really want to know? People are spreading rumors, and I got pissed and picked a fight.”

“What kind of rumors?” Camille demanded. “And why?”

“You know why. Everybody thinks you made a fool of Mr. Larson, so the rumor started about . . .” Julie stopped.

“About what?”

“About you, okay? I didn’t want to say anything, because it’s bullshit and you don’t need to hear it.”

“Hear what?” Camille was alarmed now. A rumor about her?

“People say you killed my father!” Julie blurted out.