Page 64 of Lorenzo

Or someone understood her habits very well.

I sit back. That thought is premature.

Genevieve has been dead only a few days, but everything before that has been completely ordinary. What I am seeing could simply be the public life of a woman who valued privacy and consistency.

There is another possibility.

The part of Genevieve that led her to Alessio may have lived entirely outside the accounts bearing her name.

A second phone. A private account. Messaging applications that leave nothing public. Friends who knew different versions of her.

None of that is unusual either.

The problem is that normal is difficult to trust.

I create one more heading.

PRIVATE LIFE.

Under it, I start typing questions I need the answers to.

When my questions about Genevieve overlap with questions about Alessio, I huff out a sigh and sit back.

Now I'm going in circles.

I have searched through years of her life and found no obvious secret, no dangerous connection, no financial pressure, no public enemy, and no visible reason anyone would murder her.

Yet someone did.

Someone also knew enough about Alessio to pin it on him. How did someone know he would go out that night? Someone had to have been watching him to know they were leaving the house. That club is a regular place for them, so that would be easy to guess. But the rest is just more unanswered questions.

I close several windows until only Genevieve’s main profile remains.

Her photograph fills the screen. She is standing outside somewhere in warm weather, her hair moving across one shoulder as she smiles at whoever holds the camera.

I have no reason yet to believe Genevieve Sorel was pretending to be anyone other than herself.

I also have no idea who that self was.

Mocha rises and nudges my knee with his nose.

“I’m getting there,” I tell him.

He nudges me again.

I glance at the clock, then at the untouched food I brought with me hours ago.

“You’re very demanding for an unpaid employee.”

His ears lift at the possibility of food.

I reach for the container, but a notification alert gets my attention.

Finally. My contact came through with the crime scene photos.

I open the email and download the attachments.

The first photograph shows the room from the doorway. The bed is unmade, one pillow on the floor, the curtains drawn across the balcony doors.