I clench my jaw, look at the floor and force myself not to blink so my eyes tear up a bit.

‘Umm. I’m Grace.’ I offer my hand, keeping it limp as she shakes it. A limp handshake means I’m not a threat. ‘I was friends with Sabine?’ I say, my voice cracking right on cue, like I’m hoping she mentioned me. ‘I just—’

‘You were here the other night, right?’ she says. ‘At the exhibition.’

Shit.

‘Yes,’ I say, smiling. ‘I came with Sabine.’

‘It’s terrible, so terrible.’ She shakes her head and her forehead creases to make that expression people make when they’re scared they’ll say the wrong thing but know they have to say something.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I want to send her mother some flowers,’ I continue. ‘I’ve been to her place before but don’t know the delivery address. Do you have it?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she says, cautious.

‘It’ll be the same as Sabine’s address.’ I smile. Helpful. ‘She lived with her mother,’ I say, preparing to ramble. ‘I mean, I could just turn up in person but I don’t want to impose. One never knows what to do in these sorts of situations…’

She looks at me a little startled. Hesitates. She’s wondering whether she’ll get in trouble but isn’t sure how to say no. Should she say she’s new and doesn’t know where they keep that information? But I haven’t blinked in a good sixty seconds and my eyes are burning with tears.

‘It’s right near le Bois de Boulogne,’ I add, thinking of Sabine’s Instagram page and that picture in the park.

Her eyes flicker with relief. I’ve won her over. She sits down and starts clicking on her keyboard.

‘Sure. Of course.’

Click-click-click fills the empty room. Then she reaches beside her for a pad and pen and notes down an address. She writes in the big, round, bubbly schoolgirl way that should have a heart to dot the ‘i’. She tears the page off and hands it to me.

‘Thanks,’ I say, glancing down at it and dropping it into my handbag.

But then: bang.

A door slams somewhere behind the dividing wall.

Footsteps.

The mousy-haired girl looks at me and says, ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ She wants me to leave.

‘Lors?’ comes a French voice. A female one. And a moment later a tall silhouette appears around the corner. She’s wearing a pair of navy trousers and a cream silk shirt that gleams in the light. Her hair is tucked behind her ears and her lipstick is the colour of last night’s wine.

Noah’s wife. The person who’s not supposed to be here until tomorrow morning.

Shit.

I glare at the mousy-haired girl – she lied to me.

‘Hi,’ I say, trying to act nonchalant.