“Right. And they may be one and the same? Have you made any headway there? Are any of her classmates suspects?” Delphine’s words in her office ring clearly in my head. The shooter did not plan this with anyone who was a student or a member of our faculty and said so in the note he left in his apartment.

Valentin stiffens. “The investigation is ongoing.”

“But why would anyone target Angela?”

“I assure you, the police are working on it.”

“But as a foreigner, maybe someone felt she was a threat, or something. There’s been a lot of hostility toward outsiders. Maybe—”

“Miss Darby, thank you for your efforts,” he interrupts. “I know finding Angela’s killer is important to your feelings of closure. I do, really,” he adds when I raise an eyebrow. “However, your priority now is to get home safely. And to avoid spending time with unknowns. Are we agreed?”

I cock my head to the side. “Inspector Valentin. Would you be questioning my actions if I were a man alone in Paris?”

Valentin’s affable air of concern falls like a drape. His upper lip curls. “You are grieving, Miss Darby. Perhaps we should discuss your sister’s case.”

I huff and turn toward the window.

“What do you know of Les Deux Moulins?”

“It’s a restaurant.”

He nods. “Yes. And it is where Angela went to dinner with Sebastien Bronn the night before she disappeared.”

I slowly turn back around. “What?”

It’s not some great surprise Angela went there with Seb; it’s in the neighborhood and of special meaning for her—it’s compelling she left me its coordinates. My eyes flit to the ceiling; I wonder if Jean-Luc can hear us now.

Valentin stares at me with confidence, like we’re in an interrogation room at the station. “What do you think of Bronn?”

“I think Angela meant a lot to him. Why?”

He pauses just long enough for a cold sliver of unease to creep into my throat.

“Did you know he did a tour of Afghanistan?”

“No. I . . . I thought his brother fought there.”

“He did. Baptiste Bronn died from sulfur mustard. A rather antiquated form of chemical warfare you might be familiar with as mustard gas. Both Baptiste and Sebastien were deployed in separate medical units.”

Valentin observes me like a lab rat, tallying every muscle spasm. My head is spinning. Why didn’t Seb share he had his own experience at war? We spent a full day together and discussed his brother’s military stint over Calvados. “Why is that significant?”

He whips out a journal and starts making notes with a stubby pencil. “He was dishonorably discharged from service. I was hoping you could shed some light on that period.”

Dishonorably discharged? “I . . . I can’t. Did you ask for his alibi for the time of the shooting?”