She sat there, still, but her heart was pounding. He stood behind the easel, his expression inscrutable. She tried to relax but she was troubled. He’d painted her sister and another woman and both had turned up dead. Was he responsible or was someone else? He didn’t look like a murderer. No, it couldn’t be him. He was an artist. The greatest in Paris. It couldn’t be him. How could she be in love with a killer? Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in grave danger.
A week later, they dragged her body out of the Seine.