“So the murder is related to the veil?” If he hears the panic rising in my voice, he doesn’t say anything. If the disruption in the veil is my fault, and the murder is related to the veil, that means the blood is on my hands. I can’t stand it. I’ve spent so much time trying to be good, but still I can’t wash myself clean.

He latches his briefcase and sets his coffee mug down on his desk. It sloshes, dampening the rest of the discarded paper.

“No need to concern yourself. This is business for gentlemen.”

My father’s desk reminds me a little of Mrs. Vykotsky’s. Like hers, it’s covered in scattered papers and half-dried inkwells. Florence took over Mrs. Vykotsky’s office after her death. The walls are now whitewashed, the door always open to the students who wander by. I wonder what Mrs. Vykotsky would think of the open tins of candies and the complete lack of blackmail material hidden in the desk’s drawers.

“But—” Maxine interrupts.

“Now!” my father exclaims, paying no attention to our protests. “I’d really best be going. I’m already running late.”

It would be easier if his tacit rejection of any fatherly warmth was accompanied by some great, big ocean of sadness.

I don’t feel much of anything looking at him. I’m mostly just tired. Frustrated, too.

He’s halfway to the door. There’s no point in fighting with him. “I understand.”

“Let me walk you out,” he says.

I open my mouth to say “yes,” but Lena speaks first. “I’d love to use the powder room before we go, if you don’t mind.”

My father nods. “Two doors down on the left.”

Maxine and I follow him through the black-and-white-checkered entrance, our heels sliding on the freshly waxed tile, and out into another warm June day in Paris.

My father hops into a passing pedicab, hauling his briefcase in after him, and we offer him a cursory wave goodbye.

Lena comes walking out of the school a moment later, steps at a fast clip. She doesn’t slow as she approaches us. “Let’s go,” she hisses under her breath.

Maxine and I share a confused glance but pick up the pace to keep steps behind her. It isn’t until we’re nearly home that she slows to a halt on a street corner while a Clydesdale towing a cart passes.

“You’re certainly in a hurry,” Maxine says.

“I prefer the term ‘a quick escape.’ ” She opens her light overcoat and reveals a stack of papers tucked under her armpit.

“My, my, Lena Jamison, what do we have here?” Maxine asks.