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notes something new would catch his eye. Besides, he needed a cigarette, and Marie hated it when he smoked in the bedroom.
    Carefully he closed the window, shutting out the steady,merciless beat of the rain. His feet were silent on the carpeted floor as he left the bedroom, closing the door behind him. By the time he started making notes, Marie was forgotten. She lay alone in the tiny bedroom, her troubled brown eyes staring blankly at the rain-splattered window and the night outside.
    Claire measured the coffee carefully, then returned the jar to the freezing compartment of Marc’s state-of-the-art refrigerator. It was just after six, and the rain had finally let up. Maybe they would have a few days of sun.
    Nicole was still sleeping when Claire had checked on her, her pale, plain face streaked with the telltale stain of tears. She must have woken some time during the night, Claire thought with a surge of guilt. Marc’s bedroom was at the opposite end of the huge apartment, and Nicole never, ever entered that room. Claire hadn’t figured out whether it was by inclination or Marc’s command, but even when Marc was out of town Nicole avoided it.
    Clear liquids for Nicole, fresh croissants for Marc. She’d found a baker who spoke English. She had to walk twice as far to get to it, but it was worth it. And she enjoyed the empty streets of the Left Bank, the sense of solitude. Early morning was like a piece of time stolen from a jealous god—it didn’t even exist for those who slept through it. It was a secret, precious gift and Claire wouldn’t have given it up for anything, not even the dubious comfort of her bed. The time was hers alone, away from suggestions, opinions, and spying eyes.
    God, she was getting paranoid! She hadn’t dealt with the accident properly, that was her problem. She’d been so caught up in guilt and misery and running away that she hadn’t had a chance to come to terms with it. It was no wonder that it was affecting the rest of her life, making her unable to open up, to trust.
    Maybe she could find a therapist who spoke English. She’d suggested it once to Marc, and he’d promised to look into it, but the subject had been dropped. She knew hedidn’t really approve, considered it a weakness. But damn, right now she felt weak.
    The American embassy might be able to help. That was it. Once Marc left next week she’d go over there and talk to someone. They could recommend an American or British therapist living in Paris. They could probably even help her find a laundry where the people spoke English. She’d been passive too long. It was time to face things.
    She’d left the address of the embassy sitting on the counter while she went out to the bakery. When she got back Marc was up, sitting there sipping coffee, smiling at her with lazy charm, extending his hand for the newspaper she never forgot to buy.
    “
Merci
, darling,” he said, opening the paper to the grisly picture of a dead old lady. Claire had deliberately folded it inward, hoping not to look, but Marc spread it out on the narrow table and she had no choice. Another murder, she realized with a shudder.
    The scrap of paper with the embassy’s address on it was exactly where she had left it. She went over and poured herself a cup of coffee, keeping her eyes averted from the table, when Marc’s low, soothing voice reached her. “I did want to mention something,
chérie,
” he said. “Did you know the American police are looking for you?”

CHAPTER 3
     
    Gilles Sahut shoved his burly arms into the bucket of water and sluiced the blood from his skin. The water was already a murky shade, and the fresh red diluted swiftly, turning it even darker. Gilles pulled his arms back out, but they were still coated with a faint maroon cast. He shrugged his massive shoulders and wiped the rest off on a filthy towel that had once been white.
    He glanced around, not even noticing the carcasses hanging from the rafters. He was glad it