“In the house with her!” Mom exclaims. “Of course I remember. It was a big deal until something knocked it from the headlines—the funeral of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, I think that’s what it was. It was held at Westminster, I watched the whole thing on TV. More than a million people turned out—”

“What about the murder?”

“Sorry. Let me think . . . I’m pretty sure that the child stayed in that house with her mother’s dead body for, maybe two weeks? Poor thing was starved . . . and there was something about words or numbers painted all over her skin in dried blood. Horrible. There were rumors of satanic worship, maybe a cult. A lot of people thought that the little girl was part of it; that she’d killed her own mother.”

Ice trickles through my veins. I glance at Sylvie, who’s riffling through the mini-fridge. “Seriously?”

“If I remember right, the police didn’t have any leads or suspects and the girl’s fingerprints were on the handle of the knife. Journalists, mostly from the tabloids, ran with the most salacious stuff. They camped out at the hospital, followed people involved in the story, dug through garbage cans, harassed neighbors for information. I could be wrong, but I don’t recall the case ever being solved.”

Sylvie pops the tops off our beers. “What about the little girl’s father?”

“He would’ve been an obvious suspect but I can’t remember him being mentioned. Always wondered what in the world happens to a kid like that,” Mom muses.

Was Sylvie that little girl? She crosses the room, hands me a cold bottle. A loud knock on the door makes us both jump.

“Probably turn down service,” Sylvie says and heads to tell the maid we don’t need our sheets rearranged or a mint.

“The girl’s name was unique,” Mom continues. “It was an animal . . . Squirrel, Cat, no, Sparrow, Wren . . . nope, that’s not it . . . Bird. Her name was Bird, but longer . . . Birdie? That’s it! Birdie . . . and the last name was French but you know I’m horrible with foreign languages . . .”

Gooseflesh breaks along my skin. Bye, bye, birdie . . . Gabrielle was more with it than we thought.

Sylvie opens the door, steps back. “Lucas! What are you doing here?”

Her agent looks over her shoulder. “Saving you.”

“Gotta go, Mom, thanks.”

Lucas Haughter strides into the room like he owns it. Moose sits up but doesn’t go over to him even though they must know each other well. Good dog. I study the agent who refused to return any of my calls—dark blond hair, square face, blue eyes, leather boots, expensive jeans, cashmere turtleneck, and a black leather jacket stained with rain. He hugs Sylvie tight.

“Get out,” Lucas says with a jerk of his head at me. “Now.”

FORTY-SIX

Sylvie

“Lucas, it’s okay,” I argue.

He holds up one hand. “It’s Brooklyn’s third birthday and Melody is furious that I’m missing our daughter’s party—an entire petting zoo in our backyard, plus magicians, clowns, Disney princesses. Belle Village catered for two hundred—”