Discretion (The Dumonts, #1)(72)

I blink at him, breathing hard. “I don’t understand.”

“Sadie,” Seraphine gasps. I meet her eyes. “Your girlfriend. Where is she right now?”

Oh fucking no.

I climb into the back seat and start looking frantically for my phone.

“No, no, no,” I repeat under my breath, refusing to think about it, needing her to be okay. I finally find it under the seat; the screen is cracked, but I’m able to dial her number.

“I’m not saying it’s what’s happening,” Blaise says. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore. But if what you think is correct . . . then there are other ways of coming after you if the job didn’t get finished the first time.”

I barely hear him. I have the phone to my ear, and it’s ringing, ringing, ringing.

No answer.

No answer.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

SADIE

“Un billet, s’il vous pla?t,” I say to the woman behind the booth. Either she doesn’t know English or my French is finally good enough to understand, because she answers me in French—rather cheerfully for someone who works at the catacombs.

When Olivier went out to talk to Seraphine, I knew it would do me no good to spend another afternoon moping inside of his apartment. But with rain in the forecast, it was either the museums, which would be absolutely packed, or a visit underground to the Catacombs of Paris.

I’d never been before—Tom was too disturbed by the idea of passageways filled with bones—and I wasn’t about to wait for Olivier to play tourist with me.

It was kind of a pain to get the various Métros here, and I got off at several wrong stops, but now that I’m here, I’m glad I came—even though I’m currently descending a very narrow, very twisty staircase, deeper and deeper underneath the streets of Paris. I pull up my phone to check the reception, and, naturally, there is none.

Once I reach the main level, the creepy factor ratchets up several notches. It really is just a lair of bones. Actual human bones. It’s a winding labyrinth with stacks and stacks of skulls, all dimly lit, the bones dusty, the air damp. It’s cold, too, the kind that clings to you.

But there’s something rather beautiful about the way the bones are displayed, artfully and with reverence, an artistic way of paying respects if not just a space saver when it comes to burials. After all, there are six million people buried in these tunnels, which absolutely blows my mind. The fact that the public is allowed to see only a tiny fraction of it is pretty disturbing.

I feel like I’ve been walking for a while now, passing tourists taking photos and selfies with skulls and femurs. It’s confusing, the way the tunnels go, and the damp and darkness really seem to put you in a weird headspace.

It doesn’t help that this is a pretty morbid thing that I’m doing, especially after seeing Ludovic die, then the funeral, and hearing Seraphine’s theory, not to mention the truth of what happened to Olivier.

A cold breeze washes over my bare arms, and I shiver, wishing I had paid more attention to the online reviews and brought a sweater. It’s like even with the rain happening far aboveground, it’s gotten even colder down here.

There are not a lot of tourists, either, not as many as I’d thought there’d be. There are some passages of the tunnels where I don’t see anyone at all. I just hear hushed voices. And when I turn the corner, there’s no one there. Maybe the rain has them all cooped up in the Louvre and the Orsay museums. Maybe they were smart and figured the catacombs were actually the worst place to be on a gloomy summer day.

There are various darkened passageways that lead away from the main tunnel at any given time. They all have NE PAS ENTRER and STOP signs, warning people not to enter. Some have doors that are locked; others are just long, dark cracks that disappear into the limestone.

I shiver when I hear the wet smack of footfalls behind me.

I whirl around, but see only a round column of bones rising from the middle of the slimy floors. No one at all.

It must be the water dripping from the ceiling, I tell myself.

I take a deep breath and keep walking, relieved to turn the corner and see an older couple reading one of the plaques on the walls.

Still, again I hear the sound of footsteps and feel the wash of a cold breeze, goose bumps prickling my arms. I swear I see a shadow move backward, deeper into the other shadows.

“Hello,” I call out, but the only response I get is a curious “Hello?” from the couple in front of me.

I give them an awkward wave and then walk past them, wanting now to get the hell out of here.

But there’s only one way out of the tunnels, at least for the public, and the exit never seems to come. I keep walking, sometimes through rooms with a few people in them, sometimes through spaces with no one else.

And all this time I have the disturbing feeling that I’m being followed.

And, yeah, of course I’m being followed. There are always tourists coming up behind me, though at my pace I’m passing everyone.

No, this feeling is something else.

It’s shadows that won’t stop moving.

It’s the gleam of eyes before they disappear into the dark.

It’s knowing deep in my core that I am being watched.

Hunted.

When I get that feeling for the millionth time, I whirl around, prepared to face my attacker.