I take a sip of cold coffee and bite on my inner cheek, but this is cup number three today and I’m already jittery as hell as I think about headlines like ‘Does Paris Have a Serial Killer?’

Because I have a sick and twisted theory of my own.

Maybe that tabloid wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe both bodies did share similarities like blunt force trauma to the back of the skull and strangulation. Maybe they shared every detail that was leaked to the press about Matilde’s case. And maybe that wasn’t a coincidence; Agnès Bisset could have just taken all the information about Matilde’s murder available in the newspapers and had Sabine killed the same way. What a great way to cover her tracks.

It was a foolproof plan as long as nobody saw that video and heard: Je sais ce que tu fais, Agnès.

But I did.

And fuck, what if Agnès Bisset somehow knows that?

I stare at my phone. I need Noah to reply. Now.

‘I know! What a beautiful day!’ Claudia low-key screams from behind me, and I’m far too caffeinated for this shit today. I swivel in my chair. She’s started up on a phone call. Judy got her a headset to try to shut her up, but for some reason she took it as a licence to be mobile. Now she’s pacing around the office grinning at whoever is on the other end of the line. I glare at her, our eyes meet, and she moves in the opposite direction, then I turn back to my desk just in time to see my phone light up with a message.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You have a message from @NoahXartist.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I lurch for it, my blood thinned with relief.

Fuck you, Harper Brown.

Uh-oh. How does he know my real name? The missed call. In that bar with Camilla. He would have heard my voicemail message. Did he google me? Realise Harper Brown looked a lot like Grace?

Shit.

But this is ridiculous. It’s a name – who cares?

Except: The Paris Observer. He knows I’m a journalist. How the hell am I going to get him to talk to me now?