And then back to that message.

Two hours. He had two hours. I know what he said he was doing, but was he really sitting alone on that rooftop, contemplating life for two fucking hours?

My stomach twists.

My hands start to shake a little.

Then everything fades to silence.

Did Noah do this?

But he isn’t a killer. I’d know, wouldn’t I? I’d feel it. I’d sense something.

Still, things happen in the moment. One push. One slip. Another flash of that white car. Maybe that was his. Maybe he was driving her home and it all got heated and it just happened. He panicked. Dropped her body in that park near her home. Went back to the party and pretended it never happened.

I’m the only one who knows exactly what happened on that roof on Friday night. I’m the only one who knows why he ran after her. Because, if he killed her, he would have destroyed her phone, which means nobody would ever see that video. Nobody would know he had motive.

Nobody except me.

That’s why he came to talk to me.

He needed to sew his alibi in nice and tight. To make me believe him. So if anyone asked, I’d be a good little girl and corroborate his story. No, Officer, he couldn’t have been off killing Sabine because he was up on that rooftop looking for me. Yes, I’m certain. If he hadn’t gone back, how else could he have known I’d left?

Like it would never occur to me that Noah may have simply turned his head mid-argument and seen me make my way up those stairs.

My thoughts are so clear now, so rigid, they could snap if I moved too quickly. Because now I’m thinking of that first time we met, when he didn’t tell me who he was, and how he didn’t mention he was married. He doesn’t seem to mention anything that’s inconvenient to him.

He seems to think he can play me.

Well, fuck you, Noah. You picked the wrong girl to try to manipulate. Because I’m not like Sabine. I’m not scared of being a pariah.

I reach for my phone and google: Paris police, homicide. A few clicks later up come the words Brigade Criminelle and a series of pictures: an enormous, reflective, modern building beneath a perfect blue sky. A sand-coloured wall with big black words, Direction Régionale de la Police Judiciaire.

I imagine myself walking through those glass doors. But it’s all the way out near Levallois-Perret, barely inside the Boulevard Périphérique. And today is Thursday. Our editorial meeting. I can’t miss that.

I’ll go straight after work.

Chapitre quinze

There’s a blister on the back of my left foot and I’m thinking about whether I have any plasters in the bottom of my bag when the elevator doors slide open. Judy is standing behind her desk, staring at me, the red of the tulips in the vase to her right so vivid that she looks grey-white in contrast. If I were to squint she’d blend in perfectly with the walls. I wonder if she’s ill? No. Wait. It’s something else. Something is wrong. Her mouth is half-open and uncomfortable. Like she wants to say something but figures she’d better not.