Excerpt from The Caretakers by Amanda Bestor-Siegal, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I don't believe Alena could do something like this," she says again. She places a new teacup on the table, hoping Rivoire won't knock this one over. He reminds her of her American ex-husband: his informality, the way he pours himself tea before she's sat down. The likeness should probably make her want to throw him out of her flat, but instead it makes her fond of him. This realization disgusts her.

"Don't you usually come in pairs?" she asks.

"Pardon?"

"You cops. Shouldn't you have a partner with you right now?"

"Oh. Yes, I do, but he ..." Pink creeps into Rivoire's cheeks.

"I'm sure your team is overworked these days," says Géraldine, helping him.

"Yes," he says, relieved.

"It's not often that something like this happens. You might even be understaffed."

"It's crazy. Haven't slept since yesterday. There are so many people to interview, and my boss is acting like—" He stops himself. "Well. Like there's been another attack."

Géraldine wonders whether Rivoire's boss is like her own, betraying his excitement when he called her with the news that morning. Finally, something horrible had happened in their sheltered suburb. Finally, Maisons-Larue got to be the object of attention, of sympathy. "It must be overwhelming for you," she says. "And I'm sure I'm hardly the most important person on your list."

"Sorry?"

"I mean that I'm not surprised only one person was sent to interview me."

Rivoire says nothing. Géraldine can imagine the fight he and his partner had, driving to Géraldine's home. His partner's name is probably something like Stanislas. Stanislas is a senior on the police squad. When Stanislas learned that he and Lucas were off to question the au pair's French teacher, he gnashed his teeth, he protested. He'd been on the force long enough, he deserved to talk to someone more crucial: the parents of the dead child, perhaps the parents of the killer herself, back in the United States. When they pulled up to Géraldine's building (Stanislas always made Lucas drive), Stanislas pulled out his phone. "Putain," he said, "I've been called back to the station. This one's all yours, buddy!" Then he took off in their car, leaving Lucas alone. What was there to ask the French teacher, anyway? Did you notice anything strange in class, any warnings coded in her grammatical errors?

Lucas Rivoire gazes at Géraldine's floor. To cheer him up, Géraldine says, "You might be in luck. I might not be the most boring assignment you could receive."

"I don't find my job boring, madame."

"Glad to hear it."

"You were the suspect's teacher. We're interested in anyone who might help us understand what happened."

"I can't promise that," says Géraldine. "But Alena did stay here, recently."

Rivoire removes his elbows from the table. Eyes finally resting on Géraldine. "Pardon?"

"Alena stayed in my guest room for three nights. Just a couple weeks ago."

Géraldine isn't sure why she's telling him this; she doesn't want to incriminate Alena, or herself. But she feels sorry for this sleep-deprived boy, the rookie sent alone to the French teacher. She wants him to feel important, for a moment.

"Why did she stay with you?" says Rivoire. He whips out a tiny notebook, the miniature version of what her students use in class. "Do you often offer housing to your students?"

"No, of course not."

"Then why this student? Was something wrong? Problems with her host family?"

The officer's face is eager, open. He is the first guest in Géraldine's home since Alena and Lou. She feels the ghosts of her students at her kitchen table, begging for her help, to keep their confidence. But Officer Lucas Rivoire is here, Lucas who needs her, and—she thinks, a rare ugliness stirring within her—those girls should have accepted her help before, when she offered it.

Excerpted from The Caretakers by Amanda Bestor-Siegal. Copyright © 2022 by Amanda Bestor-Siegal. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.