Cobblestone magnifies the echo of high heels and clinking glass. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder again. The sound of footsteps overlapping my own began around the curve in the street, where the bars were no longer visible and the next set of businesses was closed. No taxis seemed to be running, despite this being a sort of rush hour, near closing time and along a frequented bar block. I kept walking, picking up my pace and telling myself I was being paranoid, when Valentin’s words of caution resurfaced: Murders are impersonal. Perpetrators abducting men and women arbitrarily. Stay inside.

One bench is being half used by a slumbering man, and I sit down to bide my time—there’s got to be a taxi at some point. Another couple stumbles from down the road, heading toward me, along with a single man behind them.

“Shayna?” Someone grips my shoulder, and I whirl to face a shaggy fringe of hair.

“Jean-Luc.”

He steps back with his palms up, like he did that first day in the stairwell. Big green eyes look brown in the yellow wash of the streetlamps, larger than I remember. His hair is disheveled, looking much like an assailant’s should. Fear spikes through me as I twist round searching for a friend, an exit, a weapon, without alerting him: I know what you did.

“Good to see you.” Jean-Luc leans forward, but I stumble away, using the flat stone bench to maintain my distance. Confusion draws his face in the shadows. “Shayna, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but you haven’t gotten your phone back. Did something else happen?”

His easy cadence of English stings, both tempting in that it sounds like home and safety, and painful because I know it’s a violent lie. The spoiled cherry to this week’s horrors, a reminder that he was calm, polite, helpful when I was taciturn, in order to finish the job. Jean-Luc has been targeting me since I arrived, the way he targeted Angela. Since he was unable to keep her, he must want me to replace her. Sweat breaks across my chest in the high-neck dress.

“No, nothing else. I’ve just been soul-searching, alone. Excuse me.” I step away, toward the main road, wishing I had worn flats or sneakers instead of Angela’s stilettos, but he jumps into my path.

His features tense like he’s caught me cheating. “Shayna, I don’t believe you.” He steps toward me, glancing at the man sleeping on the bench. “I was at a bar down the street and saw you leave. I saw someone else start following you.”

Despite the warm temperature, a chill ripples across my skin. Were those the footsteps I kept hearing, or were they Jean-Luc’s? Or is he lying to get me to trust him again? Were they the fake cop’s? Are they working together?