Back in her neighborhood, she grabbed fresh crusty bread and fragrant onion soup from the café on the corner. The sun was setting as she mounted the steps to her flat. She unlocked the door, went inside. The rooms were filled with pink light. She admired the view one last time, ate her soup, dipping the bread into the broth, had a small glass of wine, and went to her desk to start transcribing her notes. She pulled out her chair.

The metallic clunk startled her. She leaped backward. The knife just missed her foot.

“What in the hell?”

She bent down and picked it up. It was a hunting knife, large, with a clean edge on one side and a serrated edge on the other. The handle was dark bone, with a metal rivet at the base, where it met the tang of metal. It smelled off. Like bleach, but less strong.

There was tape on both ends, the sharp and the dull. She set it down, got on her hands and knees, wedged her head under the drawer, and looked under the desk. There were trailing edges of masking tape, the two sides ripped apart. She fit the knife into position, saw it matched the edges. The knife would fit perfectly in the space.

Which meant the knife had been taped under her desk. What in the world? Jesus, had someone broken into the flat and taped it under her desk?

She crawled out from under and stared at the knife. The handle had something on it, flecks of... God, was that blood?

Something like panic began to crawl up her spine.

This was not her knife.

So whose knife was it?

When Things Go Sideways

WHEN THINGS GO SIDEWAYS

Heavy pounding started on her door, and Sutton dropped the knife to the desk. It clattered against the edge, then fell onto the floor.

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.