It’s right there on the front page, underneath a banner advertising polo betting. BODY OF BOY FOUND IN SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS ABBEY, HORRIBLE, SAYS NUN WHO FOUND HIM LAID ON THE ALTAR.

The Saint-Germain-des-Prés church, the oldest in Paris, was home to a grisly sight this morning. Three nuns came upon the troublesome scene at six a.m. as they entered the main chapel for sunrise prayer. Instead of incense and holy water at the altar, they found the body of an unidentified young man. “It was horrible,” says Sister Evangeline. “He looked so young. We thought for a moment he might be asleep, but as soon as we came closer, we saw the wounds.” The police arrived by seven a.m. to transport the body to the coroner where a full investigation is anticipated. The police had no comment on Sister Evangeline’s claim that ritualistic symbols had been present in blood on the deceased’s torso. Father Olivier anticipates Mass will proceed as usual on Sunday.

My blood runs cold as the itchy sense of familiarity takes over.

I tamp down the urge to pass the newspaper to Lena or Maxine with a meaningful look. Paranoia is the price I’ve paid for what happened with Finn in New York.

We’re in a big city; horrible things happen. This has nothing to do with me. But the voice of reason in my head is weak and easily drowned out.

“How awful,” I say, folding the newspaper in a neat crease and passing it back to Maxine’s stepfather. He gives me only a grunt in return, too busy sipping his coffee and reading.

A fork clacks against a plate. My coffee has gone cold. Breakfast moves on, but all I can think of is the dead boy laid out on a golden altar, bathed in the rainbow light of a stained-glass window. How awful indeed.

Maxine and Lena ask me questions about my father the entire walk to Saint Bosco’s.

“Do you remember him at all?” Maxine asks.

I shake my head no. “I have a memory of one Easter, a man sitting at our table laughing with William, but I think I may have made the whole thing up. It’s hard to tell sometimes.”

“Did he seem repentant for abandoning you like that?” Lena asks.

“Not at all. It’s almost funny.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Lena replies.

“Enough about my father, tell me about yours.”

Maxine takes a bite out of the croissant we snagged from the bakery across the street at the beginning of our walk. “Dead,” she says in between bites. “He was an art dealer, though. Used to bring me home penny candies and take me to tea on my birthdays. He was kind, I think. I remember him being kind.”

My heart aches for her. Her stepfather seems more boring than anything.