“We need to talk, Thomas. I’ve found out something—something really fucking serious that…”

I could hear the tremor in his voice.

“Tell me.”

“Not over the phone. Let’s meet up later at the Eagle’s Nest. I’ve just arrived at the Alumni Prom, so I need to press the flesh a little.”

In the quiet of the Mercedes, I tried to organize my thoughts as I drove. On Saturday, December 19, 1992, two people had been murdered only hours apart in Saint-Ex. First Alexis Clément, then Vinca. It had been that coincidence that had made it possible for Francis and my mother to create an unshakable alibi to protect Maxime, Fanny, and me, first by making the bodies disappear and then—and this was the real stroke of genius—by shifting the scene of the crime from Saint-Ex to Paris.

Thinking back over what Fanny had said, I decided I needed a second opinion on something that had puzzled me. I tried calling my own doctor in New York, but I only had his office number and the practice was not open on weekends. Having no alternative, I called my brother.

It would be an understatement to say we didn’t talk much. Being the brother of a hero was daunting. Whenever I phoned him, I felt like I was taking up time he could be spending treating disadvantaged children, which made our conversations somewhat awkward.

“Hey, bro!” he said when he answered.

As always, his enthusiasm, far from being contagious, actually drained the energy from me.

“Hey, Jérôme, how’s life?”

“Why don’t we skip the small talk, Thomas. What do you need?”

Today, for once, he made the conversation easier.

“I saw Mom today. Did you know about her heart attack?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She asked me not to. She didn’t want you to worry.”

Yeah, right.

“You’re familiar with Rohypnol, yeah?”

“Of course. It’s a vicious drug, but it is not really prescribed these days.”

“Have you ever taken it?”

“No. Why on earth do you want to know about Rohypnol?”

“I’m writing a novel set in the 1990s…how many pills would someone have to take for it to be fatal?”

“Impossible to say. It depends on the dosage. Most tablets contain one milligram of flunitrazepam.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it still depends on the person who’s taking them.”

“You’re a great help!”

“Kurt Cobain tried to kill himself using Rohypnol.”

“I thought he shot himself in the head.”

“I’m talking about a failed suicide attempt a few months before he died. They found fifty pills in his stomach.”

Fanny said she’d given Vinca a handful of pills. That was a far cry from fifty. “What if you took fifteen?”