There were no witnesses, rather miraculous, really, when you consider how many people were in the vicinity when it happened. But, conveniently for the killer, the young lovers had wanted a private moment, and so had stepped away from the main thoroughfare, where the view wasn’t quite as good but there was no one else around.

A man walking his dog found them, piled on top of each other. He thought for a moment they were making love, and smiled to himself at the folly of youth, then his flashlight showed the pool of blood, and he knew something was very, very wrong. While the man called emergency, his dog stepped delicately along the edges, sniffing, leaving tiny red paw prints around the scene.

When the Parisian police arrived, they were suitably frantic. A contaminated crime scene, for one, and clearly the arrangement of some deranged killer. But worse, the identification in purse and pocket.

American tourists being murdered is very bad for business.

Very bad indeed.

Those Sacred Hearts

THOSE SACRED HEARTS

Paris held many secrets. Sutton wanted to discover them all. She rose early, brushed her hair into a thick ponytail, put on a pair of dark New Balance sneakers, threw her laptop in her bag. Today was for exploring. She needed a change of scenery.

She didn’t know where she was headed, just grabbed the first train at the Metro and rode for fifteen minutes. She’d gone north, across the Seine. She didn’t recognize many of the stops, but one name pulled at her consciousness. Montmartre. Constantine had told her the light from Sacré-Coeur was some of the most amazing in all of Paris. He’d suggested they meet there for lunch today. Perfect. She’d visit the cathedral, see the sights, settle in to write at a café nearby (there was always a café nearby, this was Paris), then, if she so desired, would walk down the hill and meet him for lunch.

She gathered her bag and stood. When the train stopped, she waited for the doors to open. Nothing happened. A teenager knocked her in the shoulder as he reached for a small metal latch and opened the door. Oh. Tourist move there, Justine.

She climbed the stairs to the surface, a periwinkle emerging from the sand. She’d never need to exercise at this rate. Paris was nothing if not filled with stairs. The street appeared before her. It had a different feel than her neighborhood, immediately more cramped and artsy. She thought of Constantine then, the thick arms that had held her—well, no, not really held, more pinned her down. He’d been rough, and she’d enjoyed it, though now, looking back, she felt like things weren’t as blissful as she’d made them out to be. Revisionist history, tainted by alcohol. Her specialty.