“I don’t get it,” I whispered, as I numbly pressed a button on the machine to print both pages. After returning the microfilm spools to the front desk, I left the library in a daze and hesitated before stepping on the escalator going to the next floor. I would sit in the museum until I figured out what to do next.

My thoughts were being yanked around in ten different directions as I drifted through the turnstile and into an enormous high-ceilinged gallery with benches positioned in the middle of the room. Sitting down, I put my head in my hands as I tried to clear my mind.

Finally I looked up. I was in the room dedicated to the art of Fernand Léger, one of my favorite early- to mid-twentieth-century French painters. I studied the two-dimensional surfaces filled with bright primary colors and geometric shapes and felt a sense of normalcy return. I glanced over to the corner where my favorite Léger painting hung: one with robotic-looking World War I soldiers sitting around a table, smoking pipes and playing cards.

A young man stood in front of it, his back to me as he leaned in closer to inspect something in the composition. He was of medium height with short-cropped brown hair and messy clothes. Where have I seen him before? I thought, wondering if it was someone from school.

And then he turned, and my mouth dropped open in disbelief. The man standing across the gallery from me was Jules.

Chapter Ten

MY BODY NO LONGER FELT CONNECTED TO MY mind. I stood and walked toward the phantom. Either I’m having a mental breakdown that started in the library, I thought, or the guy standing in front of me is a ghost. Both explanations seemed more probable than the alternative: that Jules had actually survived a head-on collision with a subway train, not only in one piece but apparently uninjured.

When I was a few feet away, he saw me coming, and for a split second, he hesitated. Then he turned to me with a completely blank look on his face.

“Jules!” I said urgently.

“Hello,” he said calmly. “Do I know you?”

“Jules, it’s me, Kate. I visited your studio with Vincent, remember? And I saw you at the Métro station that day of . . . the crash.”

His expression changed from blank to amused. “I am afraid that you have me confused with someone else. My name is Thomas, and I don’t know anyone called Vincent.”

Thomas, my foot, I thought, wanting to shake him. “Jules. I know it’s you. You were in that horrible accident when . . . just over a month ago?”

He shook his head and shrugged, as if to say, Sorry.

“Jules, you have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Listen, um, Kate? I have no idea what you’re talking about, but let me help you over to that bench. You must be overexcited.Or overwrought.” He took me by my elbow and began leading me back to the benches.

I jerked my arm away and stood facing him with fists clenched. “I know it’s you. I’m not crazy. And I don’t know what’s going on. But I accused Vincent of being heartless for running away from your death. And now it turns out you’re alive.”

I realized that my voice had been rising as I saw a security guard head our way. I flashed Jules a furious look as the uniformed man walked up to us and asked, “Is there a problem here?”

Jules calmly looked the guard in the eyes and said, “No problem, sir. She seems to have mistaken me for someone else.”

“I have not!” I hissed under my breath, then left, walking quickly toward the exit. Turning to see Jules and the guard staring my way, I strode out of the museum and ran down the escalators.

There was only one place I could go.

The subway ride back to my neighborhood seemed interminable, but finally I found myself sprinting up the Métro steps into the fading sunlight and heading toward the rue de Grenelle. Standing before the massive vine-draped wall, I rang the doorbell. A light went on above my head, and I looked up into a video surveillance camera.

“Oui?” a voice asked after a few seconds.

“It’s Kate. I’m . . .” I paused, momentarily losing my courage. But remembering the cruelty of my last words to Vincent, I spoke with renewed resolve. “I’m a friend of Vincent’s.”

“He’s not in.” The male voice crackled metallically through the tiny speaker on the bottom of the keypad.

“I need to talk to him. Can’t I leave a message?”

“Don’t you have his phone number?”

“No.”

“And you’re a friend?” The voice sounded skeptical.

“Yes, I mean no. But I need to talk to him. Please.”

There was a moment of silence, and then I heard the click that meant the gate had been unlocked. It swung slowly inward. Across the courtyard, a man stood in the open doorway. My heart dropped an inch when I saw that it wasn’t Vincent.

I walked quickly across the cobblestones to face the man, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a crazy person. But when I reached him, all words escaped me. Although he seemed to be in his sixties, his faded green eyes looked centuries-old.

His longish gray hair was smoothed back with pomade, and his face was punctuated by a long, hooked, noble-looking nose. I immediately recognized in his face and dress the mark of French aristocracy.

If I hadn’t already met his type as clients of Papy’s antiques business, I would have recognized his features from the portraits of nobility hanging in every French castle and museum. Old family. Old money. This palace of a house must be his.

His voice cut me off midthought. “You’re here to see Vincent?”

“Yes . . . I mean yes, monsieur.”

He nodded approvingly as I corrected my manners to befit his age and station. “Well, I am sorry to inform you that, as I said before, he is not here.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“In a few days, I would think.”

I didn’t know what to say. He turned to leave, and feeling completely awkward, I blurted, “Well, could I at least leave him a message?”

“And what message would that be?” he asked dryly, adjusting the silk ascot tied at the neck of his impeccable white cotton shirt.

“Could . . . could I write it?” I stammered, fighting the urge to just walk away. “I’m sorry to impose on your time, sir, but would you mind if I wrote him a message?”

He lifted his eyebrows and studied my face for a moment. And then, opening the door behind him for me to pass through, he said, “Very well.”

I walked into the magnificent foyer and waited as he closed the door behind us. “Follow me,” he said, leading me through a side door into the same room where Vincent had brought me tea. He gestured to a desk and chair and said, “You will find writing paper and pens in the drawer.”

“I have some with me, thanks,” I said, patting my book bag.

“Do you wish me to send for some tea?”

I nodded, thinking that would win me a few minutes to think of what to write. “Yes, thank you.”

“Then Jeanne will bring you your tea and show you out. You can give the note for Vincent to her. Au revoir, mademoiselle.” He gave me a curt nod, and then closed the door behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Pulling a pen and notebook out of my bag, I tore off a piece of paper and stared at it for a full minute before starting to write. Vincent, I began.

I’m starting to understand what you meant when you said that things aren’t always as they seem. I found your photo, and that of your friend, in the 1968 obituary pages. And then, right afterward, I saw Jules. Alive.

I can’t imagine what all this means, but I want to apologize for the mean things I said—after you treated me so kindly. I told you I never wanted to see you again. I take it back.

At least help me understand what’s going on, so I won’t end up in a loony bin somewhere, blabbering about dead people for the rest of my days.

Your move.

Kate

I folded the note and waited. Jeanne never came. I watched the minutes tick away on the grandfather clock, growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally I began to worry that perhaps I was supposed to go find Jeanne. Maybe she was waiting in the kitchen with my tea. I walked into the foyer. The house was silent.

I noticed, however, that a door across from me was ajar. Walking slowly over to it, I peeked inside. “Jeanne?” I called softly. There was no response. I pushed the door open and walked into a room that was almost identical to the one I had come from. It had the same small door in the corner as the one that Vincent had brought my tea through. The servants’ entrance, I thought.

Opening it, I saw a long, dark passageway. My heart in my throat, I walked toward a windowed door at the end, with light illuminating its panes. It swung open onto a large, cavernous kitchen. No one was there. I breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that I had been afraid of running into the master of the house once more.

Deciding to leave the note in the mailbox on the way out, I hurried back down the tunnel-like space. Now that the kitchen’s light was at my back, I saw several doors punctuating the long hallway and noticed that one was slightly ajar. A warm light was glowing from inside. Maybe this was the housekeeper’s room. “Jeanne?” I called in a low voice. There was no response.

I stood motionless an instant before feeling myself driven forward by an irresistible impulse. What am I doing? I thought as I stepped through the doorway. Heavy curtains blocked the outside light, like in the other rooms. The only illumination came from a few small lamps scattered around on low tables.

I stepped into the room and softly closed the door behind me. I knew it was insane. But the rational part of my brain had lost the battle, and I was now on autopilot, trespassing in someone’s house in order to satisfy my curiosity. My skin felt like it was being pricked by a million tiny adrenaline darts as I began to look around.

To my right, bookcases surrounded a gray marble fireplace. Above its mantel hung two enormous swords, crossed above the hilts. The other walls were hung with framed photographs, some in black-and-white and others in color. They were all portraits.

There seemed to be no sense to the collection. Some of the people in them were old, some young. A few pictures looked as if they were taken fifty years ago, and others looked contemporary. The only thing tying them together was that they were all candid: The subjects didn’t know their picture was being taken. Weird collection, I thought, shifting my gaze to the other side of the room.

In one corner stood a massive four-poster bed hung with translucent white cloth. I walked toward it to take a closer look. Through the gauzy fabric I could see the shape of a man lying on the bed. My heart froze.

Not daring to breathe, I pulled the curtain aside.

It was Vincent. He was lying above the covers, fully clothed, on his back with his arms to his sides. And he didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like he was dead.

I lifted a hand and touched his arm. It was as cold and hard as a store mannequin’s. Recoiling, I cried, “Vincent?” He didn’t move. “Oh my God,” I whispered, horrified, and then my eyes fixed on a framed photo sitting on the table next to his bed. It was of me.

My heart stopped in my chest, and holding my hand to my throat, I backed away until my shoulders hit the marble chimney and I let out a terrified scream. Just then, the door burst open and an overhead light switched on. Jules stood in the doorway. “Hi, Kate,” he said ominously, and then, turning the light back off, he nodded and said, “Looks like the game’s up, Vince.”

Chapter Eleven

“YOU’LL HAVE TO COME WITH ME.” JULES WORE A grim expression. When he realized that I was incapable of movement, he took my arm and led me toward the door.

“But Jules,” I said, my shock worn off enough to allow me to speak, “Vincent’s dead!”

Jules turned to me and stared. I must have looked like a trauma victim. I know I sounded like one, my voice coming out all quivery.

“No, he’s not. He’s fine.” He took my hand and pulled me into the hallway. I jerked it back.

“Listen to me, Jules,” I said, starting to sound hysterical, “I touched him. His skin is cold and hard. He’s dead!”

“Kate,” he said, sounding almost annoyed, “I can’t talk to you about this right now. But you have to come with me.” He took a gentle hold of my wrist and began leading me down the hallway.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where should I take her?” he asked himself. It wasn’t in a pondering tone, like people use when they ask a question they already know the answer to. It sounded like he didn’t know and expected someone else to answer.

My eyes widened. Jules was crazy. Maybe he had been brain-damaged in the subway wreck, I thought. Maybe he was criminally insane and had murdered Vincent and left him on his bed, and now he was taking me somewhere to kill me, too. My thoughts were spinning out of control: I was now in slasher-film mode. Terrified, I tried to yank my hand from his grasp, but his grip tightened.

“I’m taking you to Charlotte’s room,” he said, answering his own question.

“Who’s Charlotte?” I asked, my voice wavering.

“I’m not trying to scare her!” Jules said, coming to a stop. He turned to me, looking exasperated. “Listen, Kate. I know you had a shock in there, but your being in that room is completely your own fault. Not mine. Now I’m going to take you somewhere to calm down, and I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Can I just leave?”

“No.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. I couldn’t help myself. I was too confused and frightened to be calm, and too horrified that I was crying to look at him: Looking weak or fragile was the last thing I wanted. I stared at the floor.