“Oh, God.” Her hands over her face again. “You bastard. You bastard.”

“My feelings for you are real,” he’d said desperately. “So very, very real.”

“Three years of my life. All the things we . . . the things I . . .”

“I love you. I promise I love you.”

“Stop saying that! I can’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”

“Nat—” But he’d stopped short because of course she’d been right. Nothing he said had any credibility anymore, or ever could again. He’d been trained to lie, and now she knew that. It was the only thing she knew about him.

Abruptly, she’d grabbed his arm. He’d found himself dragged toward the outbuilding, stumbling with surprise. Nathalie had banged on the door and they’d waited until it creaked open, casting a quarter-circle of orange light out into the gloom. A woman with a fountain of dark curly hair had stood there. A lacy shawl around her shoulders, long black dress with red embroidered roses.

“Nathalie?” she’d said, kohl-lined eyes darting toward Paul. “Are you all right?”

“Tell him who you are,” Nathalie had said.

“And who is he?”

Nathalie had snorted with humorless laughter. “Good question. He’s my boyfriend. He’s a stranger.” Her voice had cracked on the last word, the uncharacteristic sarcasm dissolving. “He wants to know why I’ve been visiting this place.”

If the woman had been perturbed or confused, she hadn’t shown it. She’d looked from Nathalie to Paul, then moved to one side so Paul could survey the candlelit room behind. He’d tried to take it all in: the gauzy drapes; the bowls of glimmering white crystals; the cards on the table.

“Emilia is a clairvoyant,” Nathalie said. “I’d heard she’d helped others. I had to try something . . .”

“I don’t understand,” Paul said.

“I thought she might be able to tell me where Billie is.” Nathalie had started to sob again. “Because, clearly, nobody else can.”

It was as if somebody had thrown scalding water into his face. Nathalie had been visiting this woman with her cards and her crystals: one last pitiable attempt to know what had happened to her daughter. Paul was the criminal, not her. He was the liar, the one who deserved to feel burning shame.

After Emilia had closed her door, Nathalie had seemed to cry herself out. And that was when the anger had returned. She’d said Paul’s behavior was disgusting. Claimed she’d never really loved him anyway—she’d just been lonely, he could have been anyone. Insults had spewed out, designed to wound him, and he’d let her rage until her voice became hoarse.

The last words she’d ever said to him were, You’re going to regret what you’ve done.