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agonized wail pierced all of us.
    There was anguish in that sound. I’d never heard anything like it. My heart pounded twice as fast. My mouth went dry. I felt dizzy, but I kept moving like an automaton. I had to.
    â€œI’m sorry.” Two men wearing uniforms stood. One silently collected his equipment. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
    Belatedly, I realized they were an EMT unit. The police had been called, too, along with the hotel staff. Hazily, I tried to peer around them—tried to see what was wrong with Nina.
    Instead, I saw Adrienne. Her limp body was propped in Nina’s arms, slumped at a strange angle. Her head lolled. Her chef’s coat was stained with blood. Her sleeves were speckled with it, too, as though she’d held up her arms to ward off . . . something.
    Something, I realized, that had killed her.
    Adrienne was . . . dead?
    It didn’t seem possible. But then suddenly Danny was there.
    He was fighting through the crowd, pulling me into his arms, tucking my head against his shoulder. “That’s enough now.”
    Oh, God. That’s when I knew it was true.
    Danny was pugnacious. Straight talking. Tough as nails. He didn’t believe in babying people. He would never have comforted me this way over anything less than a disaster.
    I raised my face to his. His gentle eyes looked back at me.
    I started trembling uncontrollably. That’s when Danny took charge. He nodded. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Right now.”
    Then he led me away.

Chapter 4
    Danny, being Danny—and my doppelganger when it came to finding an escape hatch—had one destination in mind: the kitchen, with its superfast, behind-the-scenes stairwell.
    Unfortunately, getting there proved trickier than hailing a taxi on a Parisian street corner. Other retreat attendees blocked our path, turning what should have been an easy getaway into a five o’clock sharp traffic jam. I stared at the well-dressed industry types surrounding us and felt like screaming.
    Or maybe crying. I honestly wasn’t sure.
    Adrienne was dead. It didn’t seem possible.
    Confirming that it was, a uniformed SFPD officer was in the process of interviewing people. Her voice pierced the hubbub with authority. “Had she had anything to eat or drink tonight?”
    â€œI know the answer to that!” I stage-whispered to Danny.
    Adrienne had been mainlining chocolates and green “energy” juice, I knew. Plus whatever she’d eaten at the spa that day.
    I tried to veer in the officer’s direction, planning to say so. My hunky, suit-clad pal dragged me back, shaking his head. Tight-lipped, he carved a pathway for us both through the throng. “Not right now,” he said as everyone made way for him.
    Too late, I understood. Given Danny’s past, his wrong-side-of-the-tracks upbringing, his various run-ins with the law (and his recent pickpocketing escapade with Rex Rader) . . . well, it was no wonder he tensed up around anyone wielding handcuffs, a SIG Sauer sidearm, and a baton. Danny didn’t trust the police.
    Confirming my theory, he ducked his head. With his face obscured, he swerved deliberately away from the SFPD officer.
    Hmm. That wasn’t good. If he was up to his old ways . . .
    I didn’t have time to contemplate Danny’s miscreant past, though. Because just then, we passed the area where we’d all posed for that cheesy group photo. I remembered Adrienne’s goofy expression when we finished. I remembered her complaining about not being photogenic. I remembered cracking wise about Isabel Lemaître’s lifetime bra-wearing quota and making her laugh.
    Now Adrienne was dead. A sob escaped me.
    If anything, my momentary breakdown put Danny even further into “Hulk Smash” mode. Wearing a scowl, he got us to the kitchen.
    There, we almost collided with Christian Lemaître. All of us pulled up short—me with an