in the foyer fixture. The single pale globe did little more than create eerie shadows along the dusty, bottle-lined shelves and counters of Maman’s shop.
The detective didn’t answer her. His head turned as he checked around him. Rose didn’t like the imperious way he took in the entire room with one sweeping glance and then dismissed it. The only thing that seemed to catch his attention was the stairs. His head tilted as he looked up to the top of them.
“Is there somewhere we can sit?” he asked.
Rose considered saying no. He’d dismissed Maman’s shop as beneath his notice, so she didn’t feel the need to be even nominally polite. As she opened her mouth to speak, he turned his dark eyes to meet hers.
She looked away. The throbbing in her head increased, flaring into a hot, bright pain. Her personal warning system. This detective wasn’t here to ask about some crime or other that had happened in the neighborhood.
He was here for her.
So this was it—the day Rose had dreaded for ever since she could remember. The police had come for her and she had no idea why.
Her entire body tensed as awful, encompassing fear blanketed her. She felt helpless and lost, like she had twelve years ago when she’d woken up to stare blankly at a wizened woman who was wrapping her cuts in soft white bandages.
It took all her strength not to bolt past Detective Lloyd out the door. She clenched her fists and the skin of the scar that ran along her hairline and down her cheek stretched as she frowned. She consciously relaxed her features until she could no longer feel her skin drawing.
“It’s okay,” he said, watching her closely. “We can talk standing here if you’d rather not allow me upstairs.”
His tone worried her and those eyes were positively searing. Was she acting suspiciously? “No, no. Please, come in.”
She ascended the stairs, conscious of his heavier, masculine footsteps, his eyes boring into her back and his thoughts, which of course she couldn’t read, swirling around her. At least that’s how she imagined them.
At the top of the stairs she stepped aside and turned on the landing light. Then she led the way into Maman’s living room, where the curtains were open and the waning sunlight was brighter than downstairs.
The detective stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room before he entered. Rose squirmed as she looked at the furniture through his eyes. The green velvet chairs and the old burgundy brocade couch looked threadbare, not fit even for Goodwill. Its frame was in good shape, though, sturdy.
The grand piano’s gloss was dazzling under the light, but big and little finger smudges marred the surface.
Fingerprints. Her hands began to tremble. She tried to relax them, but despite her effort they clenched into fists. Her gaze darted back to the piano. Her gloves were there, where she’d removed them for Mignon’s lesson.
“P-please sit,” she said unsteadily, unwrapping her fingers and gesturing toward the couch. She walked over to the piano and picked up the black lace fingerless gloves and slipped them on as unobtrusively as she could. She perched on the edge of the piano bench and clasped her hands in her lap.
The detective sat down on a chair and turned it to face the piano bench. Then he leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, which were mere inches from hers. He sat there, saying nothing, his gaze on her hands—her gloves. It took all her strength not to hide them behind her back like a child.
After what seemed like an eternity, he shifted his gaze to his badge, regarding it as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Rose tried to concentrate on studying him instead of wondering what he was thinking about her. She noticed what she hadn’t seen at the door or in the dim light of the shop downstairs.
Detective Lloyd was very well-dressed. Her interest piqued, she assessed him with the eye of an experienced fortune-teller. Maman had taught her that understanding people was all in the subtle details. Rose had a feeling that knowing as much as possible about this detective might be a good idea.
His clothes weren’t expensive, but he wore them well. His broad, straight shoulders told her he was proud and confident. A large watch that must have cost a significant portion of his salary rode across his left wrist, its face canted toward his thumb. No wasted effort. He could glance at its face without having to stop and cock his wrist.
His brilliant white shirt was long-sleeved, its cuffs shot perfectly beneath the lightweight sport coat. One edge of his right cuff was beginning to fray. He was frugal, or at least not wasteful, but a faint crease across the shirtfront indicated that he didn’t bother with washing his clothes. He had them laundered and folded.
He appeared lean and hard. His thighs were long and lean beneath the dress pants.
His hands were nice. Large and well-shaped, with long, spatulate fingers and short, clean nails. According to Maman, those types of fingers indicated a pragmatic and dedicated person who viewed their work as their top priority. That fit with what she’d already gleaned from his appearance.
The watch was his only accessory and his only indulgence. He didn’t even wear a ring. She stared at the fourth finger on his left hand, shifting slightly so that the light caught it at a different angle. Nope. As far as she could tell, he’d never worn a wedding band.
“Ma’am?”
She forced her gaze away from his hands and looked at him, with what she hoped was polite but mild curiosity.
“As I said, I’m looking into an unsolved murder case from several years ago.” He fished a small notepad and a pen out of his inside jacket pocket.
“An—unsolved murder?” she rasped. “Whose?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the pad and studied a page for a few seconds. Then he raised his head and fixed her with that dark, sharp gaze. “Now, is it true that you call yourself Rose Bohème?”
Chapter Two
You call yourself Rose Bohème.
The words sent fear twisting in her gut like a knife blade. Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about sharp, shiny, deadly things. A shudder quaked through her.
“Rose Bohème,” he said again, his tone suggesting that he didn’t believe it was her real name. “How do you spell that exactly?”
She met his gaze and lifted her chin. Suddenly she felt mean. He’d barged into her home without an explanation and dismissed Maman’s little shop as beneath his notice. She added arrogant and overbearing to his list of attributes. He didn’t deserve a straight answer.
“R-O-S-E,” she said sweetly.
His left brow shot up and a dark glint sparked in his eyes. “Thank you. Now your last name,” he said evenly.
She bit her lip. He was smooth. “Bohème. B-O-H-E-M-E.”
Detective Lloyd wrote on his notepad. “Like gypsy,” he muttered.
“That’s
