While Angela quickly began rummaging around for supplies—a bandage for me, food and water for us both—I continued to stand still, staring at Seb’s body for another five minutes. Angela is alive. Seb is dead. We are safe. We found pamphlets for the Notre Dame crypts, dozens of printed emails from Angela’s inbox, and surgery textbooks in Seb’s steel cabinet, along with several handguns. We found a bowl of house keys and identity cards, one of which belonged to Clément Gress, the body found in a dumpster. Seb’s first victim. When Angela shoved my clothes at me and said, “We have to move,” I obeyed without conscious thought. Flashbacks to my sister’s expression when she brought the scalpel to Seb’s throat were still playing in my mind.

A domed hub extends in four different directions, four tunnels. A series of iron rungs leads up to the surface.

Angela turns to me. “All right, this is our exit. I don’t want to run into anyone else down here.”

“After all that—is there anyone worse?”

She dips her chin. “Depends. Did you find my bordels note?”

Mathieu. And the large scratch across his chest, from Angela, at the speakeasy brothel. “I did. I thought maybe Mathieu was working with Jean-Luc and they were involved in human trafficking down here.”

She laughs, but her eyes remain tight. “I don’t know about this Jean-Luc, but Mathieu was. The brothel couldn’t survive without trafficking victims—although some women choose to be there. They think it’s better than on the streets. Mathieu got a little . . . aggressive the last time I saw him, when I was researching the different catacombs entrances. The clue I left—I was hoping you would see the manhole in the cubed entryway and stop before going inside. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

I shake my head. “I’m just glad you’re okay. And I’m beyond ready to leave this place.”

“Same.” She places a foot on the first ladder rung, and that’s when the tiny voice inside me that’s been anticipating this moment raises its hand.

“Shouldn’t we go to the police before flying out?” I ask. “We have time. Maybe we should tell them about the brothel, all of this.” I wave a hand around us. “There’s no guarantee we can even get on the same flight.” If the women in the brothel are victims of trafficking, I want to ensure they get help. But the desire isn’t wholly based in selflessness; we killed someone. Despite it being done in extreme self-defense, Seb is dead.