“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.