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now, and there is too much money at stake for friendships to be worth very much.” She’d made a very French noise of disgust. “And besides, the models these days are all children, girls who didn’t even get their periods yet, girls who should be climbing trees and kissing boys and running away.” She had turned to look out at Paris and sighed. “If Jackie were here, she would be fat and happy, and you would have a dozen brothers and sisters,
chou chou
.”
    Now, walking through the park her mother had also loved, Charlotte thought about this. Her memories of Jackie couldn’t be trusted, they were melded with the information she’d gathered from the press, from books, from documentaries. There was one about the fashion of the ’80s that had an interview with her mother, and she must have watched it a hundred times. It was long before she was born, and Jackie only talked about one particular designer, but Charlotte could recite every word, anticipate every head movement, every smile.
    She kicked along through the leaves on the bridle track, wondering if her mother really would have wanted more children. She’d wished for a sister all her life, and when she waslittle, she’d hoped her daddy would remarry, maybe even someone who already had children, maybe several children. The big apartment was lonely and too quiet. Once she was older, she had turned her attention to friends from school whose families she could temporarily join. But those families were almost as cold as hers, sometimes worse. Sisters and brothers rarely played together, shuttled from one after-school activity to another by one nanny or another. Parents worked or shopped or spent time with the needy poor or the neurotic rich, and hanging out with the children was something you paid other children’s mothers to do. It was no wonder she and her teenage friends were such a tight bunch; they just needed someone to play with.
    From thinking of her mother, her mind turned naturally to Miss Millie, who had stepped in shortly after her mother died. Dark-skinned, fine-featured, sharp-tongued, Millie Pearl had been an incredibly important part of Charlotte’s life. Whenever she stopped short of doing the truly stupid thing, when she refused that hard drug, when she didn’t get into the car full of drunken frat boys—that was Millie’s influence. She’d taught the young woman to value what was inside, to think for herself, to judge people by what they did, not what they wore. And she’d loved the girl deeply, hugging her frequently, brushing her long hair every night, and singing to her, making her feel special and safe and surrounded by a warm structure that supported her growth like a trellis in a garden. Charlotte had missed her very much when she left and had been desolate and depressed for several weeks. Then she’d sadly reached the conclusion that people you love were prone to suddenly leaving, and she’d polished herself a hard, shiny shell and kept it on from that time forward.
    She was about halfway through the park, past the reservoir,when a young man approached her. He had something in his hand, and she instinctively took a step back in case it was a weapon. It wasn’t. It was a pad and pen.
    “I’m sorry, aren’t you Charlotte Williams?”
    She nodded, slowed a little. Maybe she knew him?
    “I’m Dan Robinson from the
New York Sentinel
. I was wondering if you had a statement to make?”
    She was confused and immediately on her guard. There were a lot of crazy people in the city, and then there were reporters. One had to be careful. Her dad didn’t trust the press, and neither did she.
    “A statement about what?” She started walking again, quicker this time.
    “About your father’s arrest.” The reporter’s eyes were bright, and he could tell he had surprised her. Her step faltered.
    “I think you must be confusing me with someone else. My father is at work.”
    “He was at work. Now he is under arrest for