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across the street.” He pointed to a three-story building made of creamy stone, tiny black wrought-iron balconies at the windows. “The manager’s not home, and I really need my wallet. Supposed to meet a friend for dinner at the Brasserie Bofinger.”
    â€œ
Mais, c’est excellente, la
Brasserie Bofinger!” said Philippe. The two had a quick exchange in rapid French, apparently about the quality of the restaurant.
    â€œHe’s really more a business associate,” continued the younger man. “And it wouldn’t do to stick him with the bill. You’d be doing me a real favor. My name’s Killian, by the way. Killian O’Mara.”
    Genevieve swallowed hard and tried to fend off the headache through sheer force of will, as though it were a simple mind trick.
    â€œDo you have any proof?”
    â€œProof of my name?” He gave her a quizzical look.
    â€œProof that it’s your residence? A driver’s license, a phone bill, something with your name and address on it?”
    Both men looked confused. Genevieve tried again.
    â€œI’m not . . . I have no idea what the laws are like in Paris, but where I’m from, locksmiths don’t just go around opening locked doors upon request. How do I know you actually live there?”
    Now they grinned at her.
    â€œYou’re saying an intrepid thief might just hire a locksmith to let him into random apartments?” Killian asked.
    â€œI . . .” Yes, she supposed that
was
what she was saying. This sort of thing was an issue in Oakland, and she was sure locksmiths were required to obtain proof of residency. Probably using a locksmith to gain access to a victim’s lair was one of those things people would never think to do in France.
    â€œAll right,” said Genevieve. “I tell you what: If you could go get me a large, very strong coffee, straight, no milk or sugar, plus a
pain au chocolat
, I will meet you at your house in fifteen minutes.”
    â€œReally? It’s a deal. By the way, what’s your name?”
    â€œGenevieve Martin,” said Philippe, helpfully. Pronouncing her name perfectly, of course. “She is the new locksmith of Village Saint-Paul.”
    â€œI’m really not a locksmith,” Genevieve tried again.
    â€œWhat happened to the Dave of the sign?” Killian asked.
    â€œDave died,” said Philippe.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” said Killian. “Was he a relative?”
    Both men turned to look at Genevieve.
    She burst into tears.

Chapter Eight

    Angela, 1983
    P asquale (sweet, long-suffering Pasquale) has lost her patience with Angela.
    â€œJe suis désolée,”
Pasquale says. “I am sorry, but you are in Paris! You must go out of the house while it is sunny. . . . It is not always so beautiful here. I insist—go out, walk around and see the sights!”
    Angela knows there are sights: Paris is the City of Lights, after all, and when she came with Jim on their honeymoon she had been enamored by everything she saw. There were the obvious attractions like the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and Notre-Dame, of course, but so much more than that. Like the ice cream at Berthillon on l’Île Saint-Louis. She had insisted they walk across each and every bridge over the Seine, looking down into the water. And then Jim dragged her to the Café des Philosophes in search of the radical discussion group.
    That was back when Jim would speak of philosophy; he bought her a book from Shakespeare and Company: the collected letters of Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.
    â€œListen to this,” Jim said, reading from the book. “Jean-Paul wrote this to Simone: ‘I love you while paying attention to external things. At Toulouse I simply loved you. Tonight I love you on a spring evening. I love you with the window open. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around