He’s been with her for years. Ever since he arrived in Paris. All those women—they meant absolutely nothing to him. They were an act of rebellion, nothing more. It’s always been her.

The street was silent but for the mewling of a cat, the rustling of the creeping vines in the walled garden and the distant lapping of the river. A lamp glowed at one of the long windows on the third floor.

The concierge, an elderly woman with blue-veined arms, was initially grim-faced and unhelpful. But then she seemed to notice the thick rope of pearls around Genevieve’s neck and the diamond pin in her cloche hat, and became more amiable. Some dollars pressed into her palm—and then a few more—made her more amiable still. Genevieve was able to take the lift up to the third floor alone and unannounced.

The door was opened only a crack. Dark eyes peeped out at child height.

“Hello.” Genevieve bent down and tried a smile. “I’m looking for Paolo.”

Small fingers crept around the edge of the door.

“Is your mother home?”

“She’s in bed.”

“And Paolo?”

The fingers retreated. She heard a sound—the slap of bare feet on a wood floor, moving away. A creak of the door, left open.

The little girl who answered the door was wearing a nightie and clutching a moth-eaten bear under her arm. She was standing just inside, twirling strands of her long, dark hair around her fingers. She must have been about eight years old. Through the open door to the salon, Genevieve could see a second girl. Younger—maybe five or so, with a curly mop-top and a sulky expression, cross-legged on a Turkish rug in the middle of the room. She was playing with something heavy and sparkly. A piece of glass, by the looks of things. They were so young, these children.

The apartment was all polished oak and thick rugs, antique chaises longues and long mirrors in heavy silver frames. There was a feel of old-style opulence here, and the kind of luxury she might have expected from Paolo’s own apartment. The walls were crammed with books and paintings. Toys lay about, and among the art on the walls were pinned some brightly colored childish daubs.

To think she’d expected moldy walls and laundry…

“What do you want?”

Genevieve took a few steps into the salon to see the boy from the station sitting at a pretty walnut bureau, writing in a schoolbook.

“I need to speak to Paolo. Is he here?”

“He doesn’t want to speak to you.”

“And how do you know that? Did he say so?”

“He’s busy.” The boy turned back to his work.

The salon windows were open, and the breeze was moving the heavy chandelier with a gentle tinkling sound.