“You just like to freak out women by talking about them?” I offer a half smile, then stab a square of thin pancake. His eyes are a light green up close, less hazel than flecked with gold.

Jean-Luc smirks. “What I meant was I wasn’t sure whether you’d allow me to do my job, whether you would trust me. To be fair, sociopaths are pretty easy to spot, but psychopaths—those are the ones that sneak up on you.”

The Amélie soundtrack loops back on the speaker system, the whine of the accordion mingling with surrounding conversations. I pick at my exotic food while eyeing the dozen fries untouched on Jean-Luc’s plate. My mouth waters at the thick sea salt, visible from my chair.

I shrug. “I had my serial killer phase and learned a lot. They like to take things from the crime scene or leave something of themselves, keep trophies, all that stuff. I know about Bundy. You’re no Bundy.”

Jean-Luc laughs. “No, I’m not. Then again, sociopaths are marked by their turbulent upbringing, some kind of trauma. Maybe an erratic nature, repeated law breaking. Clearly not me—I had a stable home, if with overly critical parents. Psychopaths, though—they lack empathy, unlike sociopaths. They’re charismatic, manipulative, great planners. That’s Bundy. That’s your Manson. And our Ogre des Ardennes. You can’t tell with them until it’s too late.”

“You have an ogre?”

Jean-Luc dips a fry in a ketchup-sriracha mixture. “Michel Fourniret? You haven’t heard of him? He’s not someone you wanted to meet in the late eighties.”

“Got it. Well, I’ll be wary of you being too charming.”

Jean-Luc turns a shade of red. Chewing his last bite takes forever before he swallows. “Actually, Shayna, I’ve got something to show you. Something I hope you’ll like. Nothing too charming, I swear.” A shy smile turns up the corners of his mouth. He peers at me from beneath thick, dark lashes, gauging my reaction.

“Bathroom.” Warmth climbs my neck, and I slide from my chair before he notices. The weight of his gaze follows me until I bolt down a narrow hall in the back, through a door marked TOILETTES.

I enter a shrine as the restroom door swings shut. Celebrity photos plaster the toilet stalls. Signatures from the film’s cast are scrawled across their headshots. The rest have been graffitied by fans and restaurant patrons.

None contain any divine element I can identify—although I would accept a piece of burned toast with a dubious face of Buddha at this point.

“Everything okay?” Jean-Luc asks when I return. “You look pale.”

“Just tired.” Emotionally. Physically. I remain standing by the cleared table. “Ready?”