“Alors?” The cab driver leans a tattooed arm against the plastic partition when I return. His skin is deeply cracked, tan like he spent decades at the helm of a fishing boat before moving inland. Light-brown eyes cast a glance at me through the rearview mirror while I slump into the back seat. Speaking to Valentin was my best plan for the next hour.

A police siren cuts through the noise of evening rush hour, halting my garbled reply. “To follow! The police, now!” I say in French and point a finger toward the sound. My driver gives a dry chuckle before explaining he’s not that stupid. Then I throw a hundred-euro note through the square opening into the front seat.

He steps on the gas. We take a hard right on a one-way street toward the Seine River. Parked cars flank each side of the narrow road, and I hold my breath, expecting a stroller or dog to appear out of nowhere. The siren grows louder, closer, as though we’re speeding alongside it but obscured by the string of buildings to our left, until the driver slams on his brakes, catching sight of a stop sign at the last second. He swears, loud and long, like the sailor I suspect him to be, as his head whips back and forth, searching for oncoming traffic. The car rolls forward, but he slams on his brakes again as not one but two police cars come soaring past, the rocking wail only catching up to their speed when they’re well out of sight.

I don’t even have to butcher the verb for follow again. The driver takes off automatically. We join the throng of cars on the motorway and dip into the tunnel until we are flush with the river. The hum of vehicles and the rush of water beside us echo the length of the tunnel, the longest I’ve ever been in. Sounds from the mini television embedded in the passenger seat are overwhelmed, but the crawl at the bottom of the screen reports breaking news: a body has been found. Another one. Exhaust swells around us, invading the car cabin through the cracked window, making me light-headed the deeper we travel. A dozen vehicles separate us from the two police cars, but we weave in and out of lanes like a gnat, barely idling in one space before flying forward again. I buckle my seat belt. When I look up, we’re three cars behind, and I debate my next move.

This is crazy.

Who’s to say the sirens aren’t leading to a break-in, unrelated to the murders?

What am I doing?