The American Girl: A disturbing and twisty psychological thriller. Kate Horsley

      “Okay, okay. I’ll do what I can. You don’t need to shout.”

      “Oh, don’t mind me. Nina’s getting on my case and my sciatica’s raging and my prostate … never mind. All I’m saying is you have a talent, Molly, if only the one, and that’s getting people to open up to you. Your vocation is to pry under the carpet of life and find the goddamn dirt underneath. Don’t get—”

      “—squeamish. I know. The story comes first. I attended all of your lectures.”

      “So you’re gonna use it?”

      I took a deep breath, already feeling guilty. “They’ll be onto me in seconds, but yeah …”

      “I’m not saying you should become a sociopath, Molly,” he said in a kinder voice. “I’m just saying, do what those other journalists don’t have the balls to do. Make a difference.”

       Molly Swift

      JULY 31, 2015

      I crossed the road to the gendarmerie, pulling my baseball cap down over my eyes. I was abreast with the flagpole that marked the entrance, the tricolor on top fluttering serenely in the breeze, when I remembered Bill’s words. If I was going to make this work, there was no point being shamefaced about it. I pulled off my cap and shook my hair out, checking it in the glass on the door. A pair of uniformed officers walked past me just as I was licking lipstick off my teeth. I flashed them my most wholesome girl-next-door grin. I was now Molly Perkins, a single continuing education teacher from Connecticut, who loved cats and yarn bombing and, most of all, her favorite niece, Quinn.

      Inside the gendarmerie, I took a moment to size up the shabby front desk, the bedraggled receptionist sitting behind it, and the general air of ennui. Behind her a gendarme poured coffee from a percolator into a chipped cup.

      “May I speak with Inspector Valentin?” I didn’t even bother with French.

      “He is over there,” the woman said, frowning uncertainly, “eating his breakfast.” She pointed to the café across the road, La Grande Bouche.

      “I can see why he’s solving this case so quickly,” I said.

      “Comment?” asked the receptionist in puzzlement, while the gendarme behind her glared at me over his coffee.

      IF ST. ROCH were some place in the Midwest instead of the South of France, it would be what you’d call a one-horse town. One gas station. One supermarket. One clinic. One of everything. What it has lots of, though, is cafés. La Grande Bouche was a smaller and friendlier affair than the boho tourist cafés I’d visited so far. Since it was packed with gendarmes drinking black coffee, keeping an eye on crime from a distance, I gathered that it was a police café. I couldn’t see Valentin through the crowd of uniforms eating fried beignets and bacon sandwiches, so I sat at a table near the door and picked up the plastic menu.

      Within seconds, a woman with whitish hair tied in a loose bun came to take my order. The badge pinned to her baby blue cardigan told me that her name was Marlene Weiss, the manager.

      “Wow, the service is fast in here,” I said.

      “Keeping a low profile from all these … journalists, are you?” Marlene tapped her nose.

      For a minute I thought she’d guessed my profession. Then I realized that she’d picked up the gossip from the hospital and, hearing my American accent, must have assumed I was Quinn’s aunt. Ironically, she now imagined me in flight from the press.

      “Just waiting for visiting hours so I can go see my niece,” I said with a sigh.

      “Well, if there’s anything I can do for the dear auntie, please do let me know.”

      “A coffee would be nice.”

      “I’m sure we could rustle up a coffee. Georges!” Like a Sherman tank rumbling over a battlefield, she charged towards the cowering kitchen boy.

      She brought the coffee back herself and settled into the opposite side of the booth, sliding her intimidating bosom across the Formica tabletop and resting her chin on her hands. “Mind if I join you?”

      “I think you already have,” I said, smiling a little too brightly.

      Marlene leaned over confidentially. “This place is a hellhole, no?”

      “Are you kidding?” I said, surprised. “It seems like paradise here. The beach. The mountains. The wine. I love it … I mean, I would if I weren’t busy worrying about my niece.”

      “You are mistaking me,” she said with a disgruntled frown. “The landscape is satisfactory. But the people …” With that, she plunged into all the local gossip. I listened happily enough for a while, hoping she would drop a nugget or two about the Blavettes in there, but no such luck. As she talked, I peered around her, hoping that Valentin hadn’t left yet.

      I must have been more obvious than I imagined, because the flood of words stopped and, as if she could read my mind, Marlene said, “Yes, that’s him. That’s Inspector Valentin. He is in charge of your niece’s accident and the missing-persons case. I’ll introduce you because we’re old friends. Ever since his wife left him he is always happy to meet new women.”

      Before I had time to answer, she was halfway across the room, sliding her arm through Valentin’s and steering him over, cup and saucer in hand. He sat down across from me and Marlene squeezed into the seat after him.

      Valentin looked me up and down across the table and, after a moment, appeared to recognize me. “Ah, the woman who told me I was … what did you call me? A look-alike of Jean-Paul Belmondo?”

      “It was a compliment,” I said. In the daylight, I saw that, in fact, he was not quite Belmondo-esque, but a debonair blown dandelion of a man, the kind who would once have made an angelic choirboy. “If you’d radioed in about my car like a normal policeman, perhaps I would have known who you were.”

      “I saw you go inside the gendarmerie earlier,” he said mischievously. “Have you reported it?”

      “Not yet—” I began.

      “Give her some break at least, Bertrand,” said Marlene, nudging Valentin with her elbow. “The poor woman has a niece in a coma. Where’s your bedside manner?”

      “You are the aunt of Quinn Perkins?” Valentin’s blue eyes widened. I couldn’t help but think he seemed a little skeptical.

      “Molly Perkins,” I said hurriedly, and then to distract him, I added, “Any leads on what happened to my niece?”

      “We searched the woods near the house last night,” he said wearily, “and we have been making a list of anyone who might have had a grudge with the family.”

      “Such a list would be very long,” Marlene tutted, “beginning with Stella Birch and ending with the parents of that poor pupil of Émilie’s who died—”

      Valentin dropped his cup abruptly, spilling most of the coffee into the saucer. “Marlene, I’ve told you before about spreading these rumors!”

      Marlene didn’t even flinch. She just raised a sardonic eyebrow and, when he got up to leave, said, “See you tomorrow, Bertrand.”

      After he’d gone, she wiped the table absentmindedly with the sleeve of her cardigan, which seemed to double as a dishcloth.

      “Someone died at the school? How awful.” I sipped my tepid coffee to hide my curiosity.

      “Before it closed down, yes. The poor girl suffocated. They said it was some sort of game that went wrong. The other staff were busy teaching classes to the younger pupils and Émilie was the only one in charge of that unfortunate school trip. She became diverted and did not see who was responsible, so—” she drew her finger