It’s been so long since I’ve had the slightest bit of alcohol; enjoyment registers before a wave of shame courses through me.

Words in French from smokers and drinkers outside pass over and around us, encircling me, and I accept them without thinking, or overthinking, and swear I become fluent in the course of five steps. Frustration knots my fists. I still have no idea why I’m here, and with my crap tolerance, I have a buzz.

Mathieu pauses down the length of the courtyard along the same wall, before an unmarked door I hadn’t noticed. He opens it and ushers us all inside a scant lobby, looks backward, then pulls it shut. A cozy fit for the five of us. Dirt covers the ground beneath, except for a large, circular metal plate I stand on—a manhole. Bass from the adjacent club vibrates my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s the absinthe or bad wiring, but the one light bulb illuminating the space flickers.

The panel in the metal door before us shifts two inches to the left. A beady eye lands on Mathieu, lingers on each of us—longer on me than I’d prefer—then slides shut. A bolt is undone, and the door with no handle swings inward with a groan. Mathieu and the boys step forward. The absinthe only allows for a quick jolt of nerves, a sudden fear for my safety and whether someone who’s been trailing the tour since it began might follow me inside—then the impulse is stifled. Excitement at what lies beyond bubbles in my chest. Maybe this is Angela’s favorite French speakeasy, like the one we visited in San Diego’s Gaslamp District once.

A grizzled woman greets us in the somber foyer darkly decorated like something from a red-light district in the forties. Two antique parlor chairs and a table with a chessboard carved into its face occupy the round enclosure. She offers to check any belongings we might have. Heavy bags beneath darkly made-up eyes make her welcome ominous, as though we might not get our belongings back. The lamp behind her augments the scowl she reserves for me when I shake my head. She withdraws five tickets from a pocket and warns us not to lose them. When she gets to Mathieu, she speaks to him, dropping her voice and throwing me a side-eye. Serious shade for a glorified hostess. They argue, with her pointing at me, and I hear Mathieu say Américaine, but she shakes her head, wiry hair quivering in a bun. The words for trafficking, police, and United Nations tumble from her mouth in quick succession before she plants herself in front of me.

“Are you police?” Sharp eyes narrow, daring me to flinch.

I shake my head.