“How does it feel, Seb? Does it hurt? Do you like that?” Angela twists the blade deeper. “Do you?” Her voice is shrill, reaching a fevered pitch.

I shift my weight back and forth, waiting for the cue to run. Adrenaline pounds through my limbs. “Angela, we should go—let’s go!”

“I will find you,” Seb growls. “I have your passport—you cannot leave.”

Angela and Seb are wrestling—dancing, almost—and as they move to the doorway, Seb gasps as Angela does something else from behind. Their hands dip into each of his pockets, but he whips out a passport—Angela’s passport, I assume. Shocked, she releases him and tries to grab it, but he yanks it backward.

She leaps toward him, and, in one swift movement, he rips the passport in two. A wicked smile upturns his cheeks. He whispers something in French, too low, too fast for me, and she launches at him and stabs him in the chest.

“Angela!” I scream; she yanks her fist back, withdrawing the scalpel, and Seb’s hands clap to his sternum, his face gone pale. She arches, then swipes the scalpel across his throat like it’s warm butter, his insides dripping then gushing onto his white shirt, a Jackson Pollock canvas brought to life. Tree-trunk arms forget his chest and fly up, trying to hold the blood inside. Red eyes turn to mine, begging, pleading, and the seconds seem to tick by like hours until his body finally buckles to the ground.

I stand frozen. Shallow breaths rack Angela’s frame while her face crumples at the carnage seeping across the dirt floor. A moan of chilled air carries into the bunker, freezing the sweat across my skin; the salty smell of the beach rises from somewhere in my memory.

Angela snaps to. She crosses to me—eyes wide, her stride deliberate, mechanical. Meeting my stunned expression for the first time since she cut herself free, she is all business.

“Now, where are those antibacterial wipes Seb mentioned?”

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Angela is alive. Seb is dead. We are safe. Repeat.

I stumble along behind my sister, my new internal mantra on a loop. Thinking it a dozen times somehow doesn’t equate to believing yet. Dribbling water nearby directs our path in the dark. We’re still underground and near the Seine, which means we’re near an exit. My legs feel weak despite only having to walk fifteen minutes to get back to the official path. My arms continue to throb from Seb’s crushing grip. Angela adjusts to the darkness like she never left, whereas, even with the key-ring flashlight, I fall twice on the uneven dirt path.

“You okay, Shay?”

“Yeah. Where was that manhole you mentioned?”

“Over here.”

We continue forward and find crisscrossing bones wedged together, forming two narrow walls. I should be used to the sight by now, but I startle all the same. Angela plunges forward.