Normally Sutton would be hurt by the brusque exchange, but she ignored their slight. The two flics, on the back side of Sacré-Coeur. Had they been guarding the bodies of the two young Americans who’d been murdered?

She tied in to the café’s Wi-Fi, pulled up the website of French24, the English language website and news station she’d been watching online for the few weeks prior to leaving. The murder was the lede, the details thin.

She read rapidly. The Americans were young but unidentified, only named as exchange students. The cause of death was not listed.

She gulped down her coffee, wrapped the croissant in the paper napkin, packed away her laptop. There was no peace in the day for her anymore.

She starting winding her way down the hill. Half a block later she came across a flower stand. So many gorgeous blooms, all the colors of the rainbow. Those children—it was hard to think of anyone in school still as an adult—dead by a stranger’s hand in the most beautiful city in the world. It broke her heart.

She plucked a bunch from the water, paid for it, then trudged back up the hill. She didn’t know why she felt the need to mark their deaths—these two were nothing to her—and yet she was compelled. Maybe the fact that they were Americans, maybe that she’d come close again to death and the flowers were a sort of protection against it following her home. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care.

She walked directly to the white steps of the cathedral, set the flowers there, whispered a short prayer, and hurried away.

An Appointment Missed, A Disaster Avoided

AN APPOINTMENT MISSED, A DISASTER AVOIDED

Back in the 7th, the murders were the talk of the whole neighborhood. Amazing how quickly news spread, amazing how many strangers were fascinated with the story. Sutton walked to the café on the corner, her place, as she’d come to think of it over the past few days. She set up shop with her laptop and delayed breakfast, but everyone was buzzing, and she finally closed the lid of the computer and listened to the chatter.

How odd, Sutton thought. The rumors all agreed on one thing. The victims had not been robbed. The girl’s purse was there, zipped, intact; the boy’s wallet and phone and money clip were still in his pockets. They both wore watches. Passports left behind, too.

It felt weird to everyone.

“If it wasn’t random...” they whispered.

Americans being targeted in Paris was cause for alarm for everyone, especially expats on the run from their lives, who couldn’t completely pass as Parisians. And to think, she’d been right there, had practically walked into the crime scene. The thought chilled to the bone.