Then her gaze fell on one home in particular. And she realized then that there had never been much doubt whom she’d pick.

‘I’ll get it,’ Clara called from her studio. She’d risen early hoping in the fresh morning light she’d see what Peter had seen a few days ago. The flaw in the work. The colors that were off. The wrong shade of blue perhaps? Or green? Should it be viridian green instead of celadon? She’d deliberately stayed away from Marian Blue, but maybe that was the mistake.

She had just a week now to complete the painting before Denis Fortin arrived.

Time was running out. And something was wrong with the work and she didn’t know what. She sat on the stool, sipping her strong morning coffee, eating a Montreal bagel, hoping the spring sun would tell her.

But it was silent.

Dear God, what am I going to do?

Just then someone knocked on the door. She wondered whether that was God, but thought he probably didn’t knock.

‘No, you’re working,’ called Peter from the kitchen, glancing at the clock. Just after seven. ‘I’ll get it.’

He’d felt horrible about what he’d said about Clara’s work. He’d since tried to tell her he’d over-reacted. There was nothing wrong with it. Just the opposite. But she’d thought he’d been condescending then. It would never occur to her that he’d lied the first time. That her painting was brilliant. It was luminous and extraordinary and all the words he dreamed would be applied to his own works.

True, gallery owners and decorators loved his paintings. He took an object from life, a twig say, and got in so close it was unrecognizable, abstract. For some reason the idea of obscuring the truth appealed to him. Critics used words like complex and deep and riveting. And all that had been enough, until he’d seen Clara’s painting. Now he longed for someone, just one person, to look at his works and call them ‘luminous’.

Peter hoped Clara wouldn’t change a thing in this painting. And he hoped she would.

Now he strolled to the door, opening it to reveal Agent Isabelle Lacoste.

‘Bonjour,’ she smiled.

‘Is it God?’ Clara called from her studio.

Peter looked at Lacoste who shook her head apologetically.

‘No, not God, honey. Sorry.’

Clara appeared wiping her hands on a rag and smiled warmly. ‘Hello, Agent Lacoste. Haven’t seen you in a while. Would you like a coffee?’

Isabelle Lacoste really wanted a coffee. Their home smelled of fresh brew and toasted bagel and a warm fire on this chilly spring morning. She wanted to sit and talk to these welcoming people, warming her hands on a mug. And not go back to the house. And she could, she knew. No one on the homicide team knew she was there. Her purpose was deeply personal, a private little ritual.

‘I need your help,’ she said to Clara, who raised her eyebrows in surprise. And lowered them when she heard what Isabelle Lacoste wanted.

Myrna Landers was humming to herself and grinding coffee to press into her Bodum. Bacon was frying and two brown eggs sat on her wooden kitchen counter, ready to be broken into the frying pan. She didn’t often have more than toast and coffee but every now and then she set her face for a full breakfast. She’d heard someone say once that all the English secretly crave is breakfast three times a day. And for herself she knew it to be true. She could live on a diet of bacon, eggs, croissants, sausages, pancakes and maple syrup, porridge and rich, brown sugar. Fresh-squeezed orange juice and strong coffee. Of course, she’d be dead in a month.

Dead.

Myrna’s spatula hovered over the bacon she’d been prodding. It spat at her hand but she didn’t react. She was back in that dreadful room on that dreadful night. Turning Madeleine over.

‘God, that smells good,’ came a familiar voice from the other end of the loft. Myrna brought herself back and turned to see Clara and another woman standing there, taking off their muddy boots. The other woman was looking around in amazement.

‘C’est magnifique,’ said Lacoste, wide-eyed. Now all she wanted was to sit at the long refectory table, eat bacon and eggs and never leave. She took in the whole room. Exposed wood beams, darkened with age, ran above their heads. The four walls were brick, almost a rose color, with bold, striking abstracts on the walls, broken only by bookcases stuffed full and large mullioned windows. Worn armchairs sat on either side of the wood stove in the center of the room, with a large sofa facing it. The floors were wide-plank honey pine. Two doors led, Lacoste suspected, into a bedroom and a bathroom.

She was at home. Lacoste suddenly wanted to take Clara’s hand. Her home was here. In this loft. But it was also with these women.