Urgent calling in French now, the pounding getting louder and more frantic.
She dropped her purse on top of the knife and went to answer the door. Took three deep breaths before she opened it, wiped her hands on her pants. Turned the knob.
“Oui?”
Two men stood before her wearing police uniforms. The flics stared at her aggressively. The one who’d been pounding dropped a hand to his waist and said, in English, “Mademoiselle, we respond to your call of distress. How can we be of service?”
“I didn’t... I don’t... Je ne comprends pas.”
He looked confused. “You are not being attacked, then?”
“No. I’m alone. I didn’t call you.” Yes, I’m alone, just me and my hunting knife covered in blood.
He didn’t buy it. “If you do not mind, we shall look through your apartment, to be sure you are not telling us mistruths under duress.”
She found his broken, formal English charming, but there was no way she was going to let them in.
“I am fine, as you can see. No duress, no calls. I fear you have received my address by mistake. Which means there is someone out there who is in trouble and needs you. Thank you, gentlemen.”
The second flic looked at his notebook. “You are Justine Holliday? You have rented this flat from Monsieur Gallupe, for the term of one year?”
They knew too much. The panic was returning. Sutton—Justine—didn’t handle interrogation well. Get rid of them. She had to get rid of them, now.
“As I have said, I am fine. Thank you for your concern.”
The haughty tone seemed to work this time. They both nodded and allowed her to close the door. She heard their steps retreating toward the elevator, heard the slam of the metal interior door and the grinding of the gears lowering the car, and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
First the knife, then the police?
Sutton hurried to the desk, moved her purse. The knife, its wicked edge gleaming in the sun, made her horribly uncomfortable. She had no idea who’d put it there, if someone was trying to send her a message, nor what that message might be. But part of this escapade in Paris was staying off the radar. And instead of staying off the radar, she’d already talked to two different sets of police.
She looked out the window toward the street. The police were no longer in sight.
Could the two incidents be related? Or was someone playing a game with her? Or worse, was she losing it? Had the stress and fear and chaos finally taken its toll?
Possible. All too possible.
Colin Wilde’s name floated through her mind.
Sutton, don’t be ridiculous. No one knows where you are, especially him.
No one knew she was gone but Ethan, and with how things were going between them, she figured he would be happier to see her gone than to have her around.
But a huge, wicked knife, with blood on it, smelling of bleach, in her flat? And police coming to her door for a distress call she hadn’t made?
It was beyond weird, and the strange familiarity of the police showing up when she hadn’t called them creeped her out.
Think, Sutton. Think.
Constantine had been in the flat, obviously, but she’d been with him every moment. There was no way he could have distracted her enough that she wouldn’t notice him climbing under her desk to tape a knife there.
Could he?
No. No, it wasn’t possible. The previous owner had been very, very anxious to get out of town. In his rush, he must have forgotten the weapon was stashed under the desk. Or maybe a renter had put it there and forgotten it.
She’d probably knocked it loose with her knee in her sleep the previous night, and when she pulled out the chair, it had torn loose from its moorings and fallen to the floor.
She laughed aloud, relief flooding her body. Two unrelated incidents, surely.
You should write more mystery novels, Sutton. Justine. Maybe Justine wasn’t working on a memoir after all, but a thriller.
She found the masking tape in the kitchen drawer. The torn edges matched the pieces of tape under the desk that had held up the knife for God knew how long. Proof, then, that the knife was here well before she’d arrived. Guns were not common among the Parisians; this knife was an excellent deterrent, especially for someone who rented his home out to strangers for part of the year.
It had been left behind. Yes, she was sure of it.
Keep lying to yourself, Sutton. You’re so good at it.
Ignoring the voice, she debated what to do. Tape the knife back into position under the desk? Stow it in a closet?
No, she couldn’t stand knowing it was here. She didn’t want it around. No matter how benign, it was very large, and she had no idea how to use a knife in self-defense, so it could easily be used against her. She needed it far away, right now.
She should just throw it away. Put it in the trash inside a bag and let it be taken to the refuse facility. But what if someone was hurt? What if the knife cut the plastic and fell on a child, cutting them badly?
No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Instead, she wrapped it in napkins and stashed it in her purse. Locked the door to the flat and started off, toward the river.
The Seine, the beautiful Seine, such a short walk from the apartment, was shining silver in the moonlight, waves splashing against the quay from the passage of a small boat.
She hurried. She was tired and ready to go to bed; the sudden rush of adrenaline through her system at finding the knife and the flics coming to the door had left her drained.
There were people around, she needed to be careful. Then again, there were always people around. She’d chosen Paris for the romance, the idea of writing a book in the City of Light, and the ability to hide in plain sight in the throngs of people. Now she wished she’d chosen something remote, someplace she could disappear and no one would see her or recognize her from day to day. What had she been thinking, coming here?
Under the unflinching metal gaze of the Tour, she walked onto the Pont d’Iéna, went to the middle of the bridge. Feigned nonchalance, leaned against the rails. When she felt no one was looking, she slid the knife from her purse.
A hard hand grabbed hers.
“Mademoiselle Holliday.”
She started and looked up to see the twin forms of the flics who’d been at her door earlier, one on either side.
“What are you doing, mademoiselle?” But the man had already wrenched the knife from her grasp. “Who belongs to this knife? It is yours, yes?”
“I... No... Please.”
The younger of the two, the one who’d knocked on her door, shook his head. She didn’t know if it was with pity or disgust. “You must come with us. A crime has been committed, and you must answer questions.”
“What crime? I haven’t done anything. Where are you taking me?”
“You will come now for questioning.”
They were already marching her toward their car, one on each arm. She thought to struggle, or to scream, but she was so shocked, so frightened, she was frozen in silence. Without another sound, she let them move her off the bridge and into their car and take her away.