“Since Christmas last year, I’d say. The first time, I was the one looking after her—it was one of the holiday shifts. She’d had a heart attack in the middle of the night.”

I made a mental note of this.

“I’m here to see Fanny Brahimi.”

“The doctor’s just left for the day,” Sophia said. “Did you want to talk to her about your mother?”

“Not exactly. Fanny is an old friend. We’ve known each other since elementary school.”

Sophia nodded. “Yes, she told me when I started taking care of your mother. It’s too bad you just missed her.”

“I really need to see her. It’s important. I don’t suppose you’d have her cell phone number?”

Sophia hesitated for a moment and then gave a regretful smile.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m not allowed to give out staff numbers. But if I were you, I’d go take a walk around Biot.”

“Why?”

“It’s Saturday night. She usually has dinner with Dr. Sénéca on the place des Arcades.”

“Thierry Sénéca, the biologist?”

“That’s right.”

I remembered him. He had been a year or two ahead of us at Saint-Ex. Later he had set up a medical laboratory in Biot 3000, the technology park just outside the village. I knew it because my parents had their blood tests done there.

“So Sénéca and Fanny are an item?”

“I suppose you could say that.” Sophia nodded, a little concerned that she had said too much.

“Okay, thanks.”

I was already at the far end of the corridor when Sophia called after me.

“When is your next novel out?”

I pretended not to hear and stepped into the elevator. Generally, I found the question flattering; it was a mark of affection from readers. But as the doors closed, I realized that there would not be a next novel. On Monday, the body of Alexis Clément would be found and I would spend the next fifteen to twenty years behind bars. And, more than my freedom, I would lose the only thing that made me feel alive.

To dispel this gloomy thought, I checked my phone. I had a missed call from my father—who never called me—and a text message from Pauline Delatour, who had somehow managed to get hold of my number. Sorry about earlier, I don’t know what got into me. I do dumb stuff sometimes. PS: I’ve come up with a title for the book you will one day write about Vinca: “Night and the Maiden.”

2.