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one good leg giving out. I put my head between my knees, taking deep breaths that smelled like coffee, wet grass, and leather ballet flats.
    "We've got to call the police," Jean Luc said, beside me, his voice sounding oddly far away.
    With a shaky hand I reached for my cell phone. After staring at the buttons for what seemed like way too long, I realized I had no idea who to call and handed the phone over to Jean Luc.
    Then promptly stuck my head between my knees again.

    * * *

    Minutes later, the tent was swarming with people.
    Jean Luc had, thankfully, known exactly who to call. And within minutes they had arrived in droves. Policemen in blue uniforms that looked strikingly similar to American ones, crime scene technicians in black windbreakers with cases full of evidence baggies, and two men in long coats who'd wheeled in a metal gurney and black tarp. Then the second wave had arrived, the paparazzi. Flash bulbs went off, notepads came out and TV cameras from every country of the world fixed on the white, flapping door of the tent, waiting for a glimpse of Gisella's mangled body. I periodically scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Felix. I knew he wouldn't be far from a story like this.
    Ann, Jean Luc and I waited off to one side, next to the growing group of models, dabbing at their eyes with tissues and muttering subdued ohmigod's as they arrived and heard the news. Ann's headset was eerily silent as we watched the scene unfold and Jean Luc was a sickly shade of yellow, popping antacids into his mouth like Pez. Me - I was still crumpled on the ground, my crutches splayed out beside me. Though, I was happy to report, my stomach had stopped trying to relieve me of my morning caffeine fix.
    "I, I can't believe this," Jean Luc said, his voice shaking as he popped another chalky white tablet into his mouth. "This just can't be happening. Not a week before the show!"
    "It is," Ann assured him, her dark eyes intently watching the growing number of reporters.
    "First the necklace, now this." Jean Luc was wringing his hands. "I've got to call Lord Ackerman. He's going to be livid."
    The tent flaps opened and we all held our breath, the paparazzi straining forward for on last shot of Gisella. Instead, a tall, stoop shouldered man with a mustache that looked like a small, furry animal had died on his upper lip emerged. He wore a cheap gray suit that was at least two sizes too big and had a cell phone glued to his ear. He spoke quickly into it in French, then snapped it shut, scanning the area until his eyes settled on our little group.
    "Which one of you found the body?" he inquired in accented English as he approached.
    I cleared my throat, grabbing my crutches and struggling to a vertical position.
    "I did," Jean Luc piped up. "And, shortly after, Maddie arrived."
    "Ah. Mademoiselle..." The man pulled a small notebook encased in leather out of his pocket and consulted it. "Springer?" he asked, nodding my direction.
    I nodded.
    "Detective Moreau." The detective didn't offer his hand, instead flipping the notebook shut. "Yes, I'd like to ask you some questions."
    I took a deep breath, trying to inhale some bravery I certainly didn't feel. "Go ahead."
    "Actually, I would prefer to speak with you in private." He shot a look at Jean Luc, whose face was whiter than a goth girl's. "Is there somewhere we can go?" he asked, gesturing around the courtyard.
    "The workroom," Ann supplied. "This way."
    She led the way through the growing crowd, across the courtyard to the workrooms, unlocking the door and letting Moreau and myself in.
    "Merci," Moreau said with a tiny bow. Then gave Ann a pointed look that was clearly a dismissal.
    Ann took the hint. "Let me know if you need anything else," she offered before leaving.
    Moreau shut the door, then indicated a hard backed chair behind a work table holding a half-sewn pencil skirt. "Please, take a seat."
    I did, as Moreau pulled out his notebook again, along with a stubby yellow pencil that looked