A momentary flash of uncertainty appeared across his face as he was no doubt trying to determine exactly what Estelle was to the colonel. The Boches, if nothing else, seemed to have an almost fanatical respect for the chain of command, and risking the displeasure of a higher-ranking individual seemed to be something that one could leverage. If one did so carefully.

Estelle wasn’t sure what conclusion the sergeant might have come to but his smug arrogance was back. He released the curtains and circled the two sofas, stopping to pick up an issue of Carrefour Estelle had left out. He tossed it back on the table, where it slid to the floor. “I need to check the rest of the apartment.”

Estelle widened her eyes fearfully. “Why? You think they got into my apartment somehow?”

“Did you know,” Schwarz said, moving to the side table and picking up the photo of Estelle in the Mercedes her parents had gifted her, “that before I came here I was a police officer? My father wanted me to be a doctor, but it wasn’t the workings of men’s bodies that fascinated me, it was the workings of men’s minds. Criminal minds. The ability of an individual to lie so perfectly and so convincingly that they could, with the right representation, literally get away with murder.”

Estelle wrung her hands, pretending to be completely oblivious to the clear threat that was embedded in his words. “I don’t understand.”

Faint annoyance washed over the sergeant’s face. “We stopped a woman today, near Sacré-Coeur. She lied to us. My superior didn’t think so, but I am sure of it. So I followed her and the simpleton she claimed to be with. And they entered this building. And now I have men checking every apartment. Yours included.”

“Oh. Well, then I thank you,” she breathed.

Schwarz frowned and muttered something under his breath. He set the photo down and stalked through the dining room and toward the kitchen. Finding it empty, he pivoted on his heel and marched down the hallway to her bedroom. Estelle followed him, leaning against the doorframe again and linking her hands in front of her. Like he did in the living room, the sergeant went to the window and peered out. Clearly finding nothing of note, he turned his attention to her dressing room, and wedged himself in. He poked his hand through the clothing, his gun still held in front of him. From there he crouched and looked under the bed, his weapon sweeping the space. When he stood, his face was flushed with frustration. He surveyed the room, and his eyes fell on the heavy wardrobe.

He lifted his gun and wrenched the door open.

Estelle’s fingernails dug into her palms, and she forced herself to relax her hands.

“Look at this,” the sergeant murmured.

Estelle’s stomach plummeted. On unfeeling legs she stepped forward.