She’d probably knocked it loose with her knee in her sleep the previous night, and when she pulled out the chair, it had torn loose from its moorings and fallen to the floor.

She laughed aloud, relief flooding her body. Two unrelated incidents, surely.

You should write more mystery novels, Sutton. Justine. Maybe Justine wasn’t working on a memoir after all, but a thriller.

She found the masking tape in the kitchen drawer. The torn edges matched the pieces of tape under the desk that had held up the knife for God knew how long. Proof, then, that the knife was here well before she’d arrived. Guns were not common among the Parisians; this knife was an excellent deterrent, especially for someone who rented his home out to strangers for part of the year.

It had been left behind. Yes, she was sure of it.

Keep lying to yourself, Sutton. You’re so good at it.

Ignoring the voice, she debated what to do. Tape the knife back into position under the desk? Stow it in a closet?

No, she couldn’t stand knowing it was here. She didn’t want it around. No matter how benign, it was very large, and she had no idea how to use a knife in self-defense, so it could easily be used against her. She needed it far away, right now.

She should just throw it away. Put it in the trash inside a bag and let it be taken to the refuse facility. But what if someone was hurt? What if the knife cut the plastic and fell on a child, cutting them badly?

No, that wouldn’t do at all.

Instead, she wrapped it in napkins and stashed it in her purse. Locked the door to the flat and started off, toward the river.

The Seine, the beautiful Seine, such a short walk from the apartment, was shining silver in the moonlight, waves splashing against the quay from the passage of a small boat.

She hurried. She was tired and ready to go to bed; the sudden rush of adrenaline through her system at finding the knife and the flics coming to the door had left her drained.

There were people around, she needed to be careful. Then again, there were always people around. She’d chosen Paris for the romance, the idea of writing a book in the City of Light, and the ability to hide in plain sight in the throngs of people. Now she wished she’d chosen something remote, someplace she could disappear and no one would see her or recognize her from day to day. What had she been thinking, coming here?

Under the unflinching metal gaze of the Tour, she walked onto the Pont d’Iéna, went to the middle of the bridge. Feigned nonchalance, leaned against the rails. When she felt no one was looking, she slid the knife from her purse.

A hard hand grabbed hers.

“Mademoiselle Holliday.”