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She looks at the photographs. Absorbs the faces, taking some comfort from them, but says nothing.

Captain Vernet leans in close. “Your parents are here. Did you know that? In cells just like yours. They’re being asked the same questions. Sooner or later, one of you will talk. Why shouldn’t it be you? Why make them suffer when they’ll give us the information anyway?”

“Because you’re lying,” Andrée says. “If any of us knew anything, you wouldn’t need the others. You’d already have your answers.”

He smiles. “Perhaps you’re right. Or perhaps I’m just thorough. We’ll find out.”

Stéphanie tries to keep things normal for Josie and Monique. It is a Saturday in summer, such a beautiful day. She suggests they all go for a walk. Monique wants to, but Stéphanie sees the fear in Josie’s eyes at the suggestion of being in the streets, and she doesn’t push it. She prepares their sparse meals, does laundry, and tries to maintain some routine.

But nothing is normal. Josie moves through the apartment like a ghost. Present but not present. Breathing but not living.

They take Andrée to a different room. This one is smaller. There are no windows or table this time. Just a chair bolted to the floor with hooks on the walls that she tries not to look at.

Captain Vernet isn’t here. There are different men with harder faces, uttering fewer words.

“Last chance to cooperate,” one of them says. “After this, things get unpleasant.”

Andrée closes her eyes. Thinks of Josie. Prays she is safe.

“Nothing to say? Very well.”

The pain comes in waves. Sharp. Brutal. Efficient. They know what they’re doing. They’ve done this before. Many times.

She retreats to the place in her mind where music lives. She plays “Clair de Lune” in her head. Every note. Every phrase. Perfect and untouchable.

She doesn’t give them names. She doesn’t give them anything.

Stéphanie hands Josie underwear and a dress of Monique’s. “We need to wash your clothes, my dear.”

Josie undresses and puts the fresh clothes on without a word.

“Tell you what. If you two don’t mind staying in the apartment on your own for a short while, I will go back to your apartment and see if the concierge will let me in. Perhaps I can get some of your own things. How does that sound?”

“We’ll be fine, Maman,” Monique says.

“Can I come with you?” Josie finally speaks. “Tata Andrée may be there; I didn’t see her go.”

Stéphanie encourages Josie to sit on the bed beside her and takes her hands in hers. “I don’t think that would be wise. Let me go, and if everything there is all right, then of course I will take you back home immediately.”

“Home,” the girl whispers.

“Yes, home, but I need to go there and make sure it is safe. Understand?”

“Yes.”

A short while later, Stéphanie turns onto rue Blomet.

She is moving quickly, her head down, rehearsing what she will say to the concierge, when a figure steps quietly into her path. She startles before she recognizes him—Maurice, the man himself, cap pulled low, expression carrying the gravity of someone with something urgent to say.

“Mme Stéphanie.” His voice is barely above a murmur. “You shouldn’t go any further.”

She stares at him. “How did you know where I was going?”

“I know most things that happen in this neighborhood,” he says simply. “The Militia are still in the Levallois apartment. They have been there since the night of the arrest. They are waiting.” He pauses, letting the weight of that settle. “Anyone who knocks on that door—anyone who shows their face on that staircase—they are taking them in.”

Stéphanie feels cold move through her that has nothing to do with the weather.

“La petite,” Maurice says, “she is with you?”