An hour later, feeling sore between the legs and sick to her stomach with self-hate, she had just enough respect left for herself to tell Constantine to leave.

Good night and goodbye.

He’d looked at her sideways, as if to argue, but kissed her chastely on the forehead and left, whistling, as she shut the door on him. He didn’t seem to have picked up on her isolationist thought process during their sex. Certainly hadn’t worried about pleasuring her. He was in it for himself, something she’d already known, but had to prove to herself yet again.

She cleaned up, made some peppermint tea to settle her stomach, decided to check and see if there was anything new on the murders of the poor kids at Sacré-Coeur.

Their deaths were the fulcrum. There was something so wrong about it. She felt violated, though she hadn’t had anything to do with them. Her adventure—and let’s face it, that’s what this had turned into, a vacation from her life, not a fresh start—was over when she heard they’d been killed. She couldn’t escape reality anywhere. People were always vicious, wherever they were.

The television was inside a cabinet. She hadn’t planned to watch it, ever, just in case, but now she grabbed the dusty remote and brought it to life. It was already tuned to France24; not surprising, since this flat had been a popular spot for American tourists prior to Sutton claiming it.

There was nothing new on the story, except the families had been notified, so they were now releasing the names of the victims. Rick Lewis and Lily Connolly. Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. High school sweethearts. Exchange students in England. Their families didn’t know they were in Paris. The girl’s mother was suspicious; the boy’s father posited they were probably getting engaged, because his son had told him he wanted to do something grand, sweeping, romantic. He wanted it to be memorable. They led quiet lives, in a quiet town, with a quiet future ahead, raising a quiet little family to live another quiet life. The exchange year abroad was the most outrageous thing they would ever do; they both knew this. Rick’s father, standing stooped and defeated behind a bank of microphones, said he was certain his son was giving his lifelong love a proposal she’d never forget.

Sutton snapped off the television, rushed to the bathroom. Was peppermint sick, kneeling on the hard black-and-white octagonal tiles. When she was finished, she wiped her mouth. Their deaths were horrible. Their deaths were meaningless. Their deaths inspired an idea.

That’s what made her ill, the horror of seeing the terrible story, the loss, the forever torment of absence that would exist for those left behind, and her awful writer brain immediately saw a path to a story that would capitalize on their suffering.