A sphere of headlights grows in the crooked road. Panic riles me, closing my throat, and I take another step away from him. “I’m fine. Thank you for your help this week, Jean-Luc.”

People still drinking and stumbling around us snicker, mocking my English with thick French accents. “Zahnk yeu, Jean-Luc!”

As the headlights near, I thrust out my hand, and a taxi rolls to a stop beside us. I climb into the back seat.

“Shayna. If you need anything, you know where I live,” Jean-Luc says through the open window. He raises a single palm. “And I know where you live.”

My thumb pushes down the door lock. “Montmartre, s’il vous plaît,” I say to the driver. The front seat is dark, so I can’t tell if he heard or understands my accent until the car pulls forward. We veer left toward the river. I count to five before I let myself look behind. Jean-Luc is in the same spot. It could be simple coincidence that he saw me leaving, or he could have been following me since I ducked out of Danse La Nuit. Since the baggage carousel at Charles de Gaulle airport.

The driver asks me something in French I don’t grasp. I’m shaking my head when a high-pitched wail reaches us. Loud, fast, rocking toward us from the main causeway of the river. A police car speeds past, narrowly missing our cab. Valentin. Could that be him?

“Follow that car, s’il vous plaît.”

The driver looks at me in the rearview mirror. “De . . . quoi?”

“My sister . . .” I lift a hand to my head. The throbbing I felt inside the club returns. My cheeks flush as an uncomfortable warmth spreads down my chest.

“Everything okay?” he asks in French. Streetlamps blur along the riverside boulevard. Turning my gaze to him aggravates the growing vertigo. Darkness flits across his concerned expression, and I mumble that I’m fine, mal de tête. Headache.

“Please follow that car. My sister is missing; she needs my help. Please. Help me look for her.” My vision turns hazy. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation burrow into my temples. My dress seems too thick, too hot, even though the driver wears a jacket.

“Your address,” the driver attempts. “Miss, where you live?” Something about his voice in English is familiar, but I can’t place it.

I mumble what I think is the street in Montmartre. Offer the closest metro stop to better orient the driver. The car pitches right. The leather seat is cool on my cheek. Brightness glares through my eyelids. Someone touches my shoulder. “Angèle. Nous sommes arrivés.”

“What?” My eyes fly open, and I find Mathieu, the bordel tour guide, holding open the door. I scramble out of the car, but he grabs me by the shoulders.

“Angèle, you are okay?”

“Get away from me!” I struggle to tear free, to get inside.