She started and looked up to see the twin forms of the flics who’d been at her door earlier, one on either side.

“What are you doing, mademoiselle?” But the man had already wrenched the knife from her grasp. “Who belongs to this knife? It is yours, yes?”

“I... No... Please.”

The younger of the two, the one who’d knocked on her door, shook his head. She didn’t know if it was with pity or disgust. “You must come with us. A crime has been committed, and you must answer questions.”

“What crime? I haven’t done anything. Where are you taking me?”

“You will come now for questioning.”

They were already marching her toward their car, one on each arm. She thought to struggle, or to scream, but she was so shocked, so frightened, she was frozen in silence. Without another sound, she let them move her off the bridge and into their car and take her away.

An Arrest Is Made

AN ARREST IS MADE

Sutton hated the police. She hated the smell of the stations—even here, in Paris, it was just the same as that hateful place she’d been forced into overnight as a teenager. She was trying hard not to panic. Though she’d done nothing wrong, she wasn’t stupid. Being apprehended standing on a bridge about to throw a large, bloody hunting knife into the water below didn’t look good at all.

They took her to the police station on Rue Fabert next to Les Invalides. When she finally got her wits about her, Sutton—Justine—kept up a steady patter of protests and demands to see a lawyer, though they ignored her. They put her in a room, brought her a bottle of water, and shut the door.

She had no idea how the French legal system worked. She didn’t know if she could be charged without evidence, whether she was allowed a phone call, or a lawyer. She was breathing hard and trying to keep it together, but it was difficult. She was supposed to be off the radar, living quietly in Paris, and not even a week in, she was in a police station.

She prayed her identity would hold up. She hadn’t brought her passport, it was at the flat, but she assumed they would go there and look through her things and find it.

You’re Justine Holliday from Hollywood, Florida. Just remember that.

But as the minutes ticked past, the panic rose.

They were doing it on purpose, of course. Knowing she was scared and alone, leaving her thinking and sweating in a metal box in the middle of the night, with ultrabright fluorescent lights overhead, would rattle anyone. They had no idea the fear she had of being a rat in a cage, of being falsely accused. She’d been there before. She hadn’t liked the outcome.