“Something like that.” Estelle was trying to think fast but right now her thoughts were muddled, her ability to deliberate and calculate frozen by fear. Which was even more terrifying. She needed to get the airman away from here. But how to do that without implicating or compromising herself?

There was a tiny part of her that simply wanted to run. To turn and walk away and not look back. But that safety would only be temporary.

“You two meet these…individuals often?” Celine asked quietly.

“Something like that.” Estelle would worry later about the consequences of the obvious conclusion the agent had made.

The two Gestapo men on the promenade were now storming back in pursuit of Jerome, people scattering in front of them as they gave chase down the staircase. Estelle shrank back, away from the top of the stairs and farther beneath the canopy of the tree, as if she could make herself invisible. Jerome had almost reached the narrow street at the bottom of the stairs below. If he could make it a little farther, he would be quickly swallowed by the twisting tangle of Montmartre streets that fell to the west—

Another pair of Gestapo soldiers appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Jerome came to a stumbling stop, frantically looking back and forth between the men who had him trapped and were closing in. He spun in indecision, his hesitation costing him everything. The men who had been chasing him from above reached him first and knocked him forward. He fell down a handful of steps, landing awkwardly on his side. The men from below closed the gap, and the smaller of the two delivered a vicious kick to his head.

Jerome went limp, and in the next second was hauled to his feet and dragged the rest of the way down the stairs. A black car had pulled up, and one of the four men pulled the back door open. An insensible Jerome was shoved into the back, two of his captors getting into the car with him. The vehicle rolled off quickly and quietly. People who had stopped or cowered from the scene resumed their travels, eyes fixed firmly on the pavement as if nothing had happened.

Estelle grasped the balustrade, trying not to give in to the helpless terror and panic that was crashing around in her chest. She heard a high-pitched, muffled whimper, and it took her a second before she understood that it was coming from her. She dropped her head and focused on her breathing. Focused on what had not happened instead of what had. Jerome had not been killed. He was not dead. Not yet.

And the airman he had been guiding had not been caught with him.

Estelle’s head snapped up. The American airman. Where was he? She turned and scanned the promenade.