Back up the stairs, I tried the knocker again and called out, “Étienne!”

Was that music? Maybe that was it… They couldn’t hear me over the music. I leaned against the door to listen, and it creaked opened.

“Étienne?” I said, quieter now. “It’s Luke Perrone.” No one could possibly hear me over the music, which was blasting, the same pop song the girlfriend had been playing when I had been here earlier.

I took a step in.

A ceramic lamp cast everything in shadow: wallpaper, rugs, an antique side table—on it several cigarettes crushed in an ashtray. The suitcases were still lined up in the hallway.

Another step in, I called louder, “Étienne!”

The song ended, but a moment later, it started again, as if on repeat. It was coming from upstairs.

I’d taken only a few more steps when I saw her, Chaudron’s girlfriend, on the staircase, her head on the bottom step, one leg stretched above, the other bent at an impossible angle, her eyes open and fixed.

Breath caught in my throat, frozen for a minute, then I moved on automatic, searching for a pulse in her neck, her wrist, though there was little doubt she was dead: her nightgown was soaked with blood.

Hands trembling, I fumbled the cell phone from my pocket, smearing it with the girl’s blood, not sure who to call. Did the French use 911?

That damn pop song was playing over and over. Steam hissed from a radiator. The smell of tobacco gone sour in the air. I fought nausea as I followed bloodstains trailing up the stairs.

Étienne Chaudron lay on the floor just outside his bedroom, face beaten, blue robe gone purple with blood.

The music was blaring, sending shock waves through my body, the bedroom door half-open, and I dared look in—the room trashed, drawers dumped, pillows slashed, feathers everywhere, several doing a slow dance in the air. Had this just happened?

From the look of Chaudron’s face, or what was left of it, I guessed he had not given up whatever it was the killer had been searching for.

Something important to show you, something in my great-uncle’s meticulous hand…

My pulse was racing. Had Chaudron’s call been interrupted—or had there been a gun to his head when he’d called? Had someone else wanted me here?

An alarm—intuitive and raw—sounded inside my head: Get out—now!

I moved backward down the stairs, almost stumbling over the girl’s body, the cell phone in my hand covered in her blood, and could not stop the thought: What else have I touched: the doorknob, the lion’s-head knocker, the banister—the girl!—my name and number on Chaudron’s cell phone, along with my messages!

Head pounding, mouth dry, I made it to the bottom landing, stood there a moment, looking one way, then the other, alarm still sounding in my brain, body tingling. In the living room, the sheets had been pulled off the furniture, cushions slit, foam bubbling out of them as if they had erupted, a shattered vase, shards of pottery on the floor, an armoire with its drawers open, a table upended.