Murder in the Bastille

Later Monday night

SEARING BURSTS OF PAIN, a flashing staccato of agony and light hit Aimée. Then a heavy, hideous compression jammed her skull. Spread across her cranium, leveled her. Like nothing she’d ever felt.

She opened her mouth with a cry that took all the air from her. Her universe, cliffs and peaks of hurt, throbbed. A shim-mery cold spiked her spine. Everything folded into dark; all was furry and fuzzy.

And then she threw up. Everywhere. All down her Chinese silk jacket. She reached out to what felt like leaves, wet with clingy bits of vomit. Then she fell over, her nails scraping the stone. Night starlings tittered above her.

René’s voice sounded faraway. “Aimée, Aimée! What happened? Are you hurt? Are you still there?”

René was on the phone . . . but he was so far away. She tried to speak but her mouth wouldn’t work. No words came out. No rescue plea. No sound.