“But you caught them. Did you not? Three people left the office quite abruptly, shortly afterward.” Which was true. At least one had been a reassignment, Evangeline knew, but Stefan didn’t have to know she knew that. She’d changed her tactics, slowly, carefully, after his investigation had begun. Gradually enough that he might not notice the mole had been tipped off to his attentions. She was doing everything right. By God, she’d done everything so carefully that she feared she hadn’t made any real difference at all.

But she’d done enough to send the Gestapo scrambling. She’d done enough for Simone to be building some sort of damned ridiculous campaign into the heart of the Third Reich. She’d done enough that Georges-Yves was going to pay for it with his life, and who knew how many more. She’d done enough to sign her own execution orders, if Stefan was steering this where she feared.

And still the Nazis held her city, the world, in their brutal grasp.

“I thought we’d caught them, but no,” Stefan finally said, the tinge of remorse in his voice far too phony. “It would seem we have not. But it’s no matter. I’m sure we will very soon.”

They had reached the 16th arrondissement. He could not possibly be taking her home for real—could he? This was just another stage of the hunt, of whatever snare he was trying to draw around her. She’d been caught, and he was drawing it out for as long as he could, waiting for her nerves to fray and snap. She didn’t need to be sitting in that same bloody chair where Georges-Yves had slumped for her interrogation to have already begun.

“It has been a long night, and I’ve been a terrible excuse of a gentleman by keeping you out so late.” He patted her hand; she didn’t bother to hide her instinct to recoil. “Take the day off. Get some rest. You work far too hard as it is.”

“Some rest,” she repeated. As if she could possibly sleep after that.

Yes. He wanted her scared, panicked, thrashing about to pull the snare tighter. He was letting her go so he could follow her back to her den. He had all the pieces of the network sorted out: now he wanted to see how she would assemble them.

“I’ll do my best,” she offered with a smile. And let herself into the mansion, his eyes burning a hole in her back the entire way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SIMONE

One hour and far too much awkward silence later, they were finally allowed into the keg cellar that smelled of wet and yeast. Beside her, Phillip nearly choked at the pitiful receiver they’d been using to listen to Resistance communiqués. “I’m amazed you can even get a signal with this thing.”