Never fully facing the camera. A shoulder. A hand. A reflection in glass. A silhouette beside her.
Deliberately obscured.
My heart thudded harder.
She’d been protecting him. Or protecting herself.
Or both.
I sat back slowly, photos trembling slightly in my hand.
You really had another life here.
A knock sounded suddenly from the apartment next door, muffled through the wall, and I jumped, pulse racing.
God.
I laughed shakily at myself and set the photos down.
Okay.
Okay.
Next step.
Find out who Étienne Moreau was.
I pulled out my phone, hesitating only a second before opening my messages.
Michelle Baskin — Magazine.
My editor. My friend. The woman who always knew how to find people when necessary.
I typed:
Hey. Random question. Need help tracking down someone in Paris. Name: Étienne Moreau. Might be tied to corporate consulting or training networks in Europe. Can you work your magic?
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Michelle:
Jesus, Ella. Hello to you, too. Aren’t you supposed to be grieving in Europe?
I smiled faintly.
Ella:
Working on that. Also working. Long story.
Pause.
Michelle:
I’ll ask around. Give me a few hours.
Also … you all right?
I hesitated.
