She says something snide, judging from her lift of one eyebrow. Then she nods over to Mathieu. Without further pomp, she turns on her heel and motions for us to follow.

We move down a skinny hall with red cloth lining the walls. A large man waits for us at the end, bald and pink cheeked in the warmth of the low ceilings and stunted environs. One at a time, he pats us down for objects, and the small voice that fought through my intoxicated haze pipes up again. Part of the tour? The man pats me down as thoroughly as he did the boys, and I focus on the crisscrossed pattern of the walls as he slides his hand around my waistband. Mathieu watches intently. When I’m released, we step through a restaurant-style door that swings behind us with an aggressive flapping sound. The dim lighting continues. A red haze grows the farther we walk in. Classical music thrums from speakers louder than I’ve ever heard violins, along with a deeper noise I can’t place. I stumble along, behind Boy One and Boy Two through another empty vestibule. Boy Three takes off to the right like he already knows the drill. Mathieu leans into me and says, “Excited?”

A figure approaches from a counter tucked off to the side. Alcohol bottles line glass shelves, with no bartender in sight. Maybe this is a real speakeasy, with no liquor license. That’s what I was getting the side-eye from the hostess about.

The man wears a hat with a large brim, and for a second I panic, thinking it’s the fake cop. Then he leans in, and his accent purrs in my ear, trilling his r’s. Not a French accent. “What are you looking for?” he asks. “Old boyfriend break your heart? Best friend cheat with him? I can help.”

I jerk out of reach, though the movement is much slower. Mathieu says something to make the man turn back to the DIY bar and takes my hand. I watch him pull me to the right, following the group. My chest burns, warming me beyond the temperature of the small space. I wasn’t supposed to drink anything. I shouldn’t have drunk anything. He pushes a velvet curtain to the side, allowing me to enter first, and I almost trip on a couple making out on a footstool. “Sorry,” I mutter. But neither one bats an eye at my slurred English. Mathieu pushes me forward with a hand on the small of my back, past an aisle of four doors, then left down a series of curtains. The deeper we travel inside this speakeasy, the more heightened my senses become.

This is not a tight space, not the family chest Angela locked me in when we were kids. But not knowing what lies ahead arouses my anxiety. I go to crack my pinkie knuckle, and it won’t give.