The young woman massages her breasts for her audience. Pale skin glows in the red light, her blonde hair showing platinum from root to tip. The slip she wears appears nude so that she could already be naked were it not for the fabric gathering under her palms. The curtain sways again, and Boy Three enters the scene. I gasp, but Mathieu doesn’t move beside me. Boy Three, naked from the waist up, only wearing the jeans I just saw him in, approaches her from behind, and if she hears him, she doesn’t let on. He grabs her by the waist, then climbs his hands to her chest, but she doesn’t flinch, instead allowing her glossed lips to fall open as though she enjoys his touch. As though this is a performance she’s acted multiple times. Boy Three slides his hands to between her thighs, lifting the slip to show us her red cotton panties as his fingers search for skin. Here, she purses her lips, then turns to him, lifting her slip over her head and allowing it to fall to the hardwood floor. He leads her to the bed, undoes his pants, then climbs on top of her. She lets her face fall toward us, then licks her lips in a wide arc.

My skin turns cold. The warmth of the absinthe dissipates, replaced by nausea and a creeping understanding. Sickness builds from my abdomen and climbs into my rib cage. The third stop. This is no longer a tour. And not just a peep show. I am in a real-life brothel.

Mathieu’s breathing intensifies beside me, and I’m unable to look at him. He clears his throat. “I am so glad you returned. I thought you might not, after your last visit.”

“What?”

He tears his gaze from the couple and withdraws a small tube from his pocket. He offers me a tiny round pill. When I shake my head, he takes it himself. “I am sorry about last time, Angèle. I do not remember all, but the scratch you gave . . . endured one week.”

My chest tightens. “Angela?”

Mathieu groans, watching something the couple is doing. He rubs his neck, licks his lips, then turns to me again. “That hurt, Angèle. I do not remember when you left, but it is rude to leave without saying au revoir. Come closer. Stay this time.”

He grabs hold of my wrist and yanks, and I fall against him. “Angèle,” he breathes. A lecherous gleam clouds black eyes. His sweaty palm climbs my thigh. “I was so angry when you left.”

“Let go!” I push his hand off and struggle to stand, but he wraps both arms around me.

“Angèle,” he says again, louder. His grip tightens. “Arrêtes, Angèle! You did not go to the police, did you? Did you?”