Vincent walked me down the stairs and into the courtyard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s something going on. Something I have to take care of.”

“Like police business, you mean?” I said, unable to hide my sarcasm.

“Yeah, something like that,” he said evasively.

“And you can’t talk about it.”

“No.”

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you around our neighborhood . . . ,” I said, attempting to mask my disappointment with a smile.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, and reached out his hand for mine. Though I wasn’t very happy with him, his touch warmed me to my toes. “Promise,” he added, looking like he wanted to say more. Then, giving my hand a squeeze, he turned to walk back into the building. My bad mood eased a little with his gesture, and I wandered through the gate feeling not quite ditched but not very pleased with how things had turned out, either.

I started walking north, trying to decide whether to visit the shops on the rue des Rosiers or stroll under the shady arcades surrounding the seventeenth-century square called Place des Vosges. I wasn’t even halfway up the block when I decided my heart wasn’t in it. I wanted to know what was going on with Vincent. Curiosity was killing me, and if I wasn’t going to get any answers, I just wanted to go home.

I stopped at the crepe stand outside the Dome café and waited as the vendor spread the batter on the piping hot circular grill. I couldn’t help but wish that Vincent were here getting a crepe with me as I watched people come and go from the Métro stop across the street. As if prompted by my wish, I spotted Vincent approaching the entrance with Jules. They began making their way down the stairs.

This is my chance to find out what’s going on with the policeman charade, I thought. Vincent had said that there was something he had to take care of. Based on his behavior at the Village Saint-Paul, it seemed more like someone he had to take care of. I wanted to know who it was. I reasoned that if I was going to keep seeing Vincent, or whatever it was we were doing, I should be aware of any mysterious activities he was involved in.

“Et voilà, mademoiselle,” said the vendor, handing me a paper-towel-wrapped crepe. I pointed to the change I had left on the counter and called, “Merci,” as I sprinted toward the subway entrance.

Once through the turnstile, I spotted the boys heading down the tunnel to the train. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I saw them standing halfway down the track. Before they could notice me, I slipped onto one of the plastic benches lining the wall.

It was then that I saw the man.

Just a stone’s throw away from Vincent and Jules, a clean-cut thirtysomething man wearing a dark suit stood at the edge of the platform, holding a briefcase in one hand and pressing the other against his lowered forehead. It looked like he was crying.

In all my years of riding the Paris Métro, I had seen some weird things: Street people peeing in the corners. Madmen ranting about government persecution. Bands of children offering to help tourists with their luggage and then taking off with it. But I had never seen a grown man cry in public.

The whoosh of air that precedes the train came gusting through the tunnel, and the man looked up. Calmly placing his briefcase on the ground, he crouched down, and using one hand to steady himself on the edge of the platform, he jumped down onto the tracks. “Oh my God!” I felt the words coming out of my mouth in a scream, and looked around frantically to see if anyone else had noticed.

Jules and Vincent turned my way, not even glancing at the man on the tracks, though I was wildly pointing at him with both hands. Without speaking, they nodded at each other before each moving rapidly in a different direction. Vincent approached me and, taking me by the shoulders, tried to turn me away from the track.

Fighting him, I whipped my head around to see Jules jump down off the platform onto the tracks and push the now sobbing man out of the way. With the oncoming train just feet away, he looked up at Vincent and, giving a slight nod, touched his index finger to his forehead in a casual salute.

The sound was terrible. There was the earsplitting screech of the train’s brakes, way too late to avoid the disaster, and then the loud thud of metal hitting flesh and bone. Vincent had prevented me from seeing the actual crash, but a snapshot of the penultimate second lodged in my mind: Jules’s calm face nodding to Vincent as the train rushed up behind him.

I felt my knees give way and slumped forward with only Vincent’s arms to hold me from falling. Screams came from all sides, and the sound of a man’s loud wailing drifted from the direction of the tracks. I felt someone lift me and begin to run. And then everything was as silent and black as a tomb.

Chapter Eight

I AWOKE TO THE SMELL OF STRONG COFFEE AND lifted my head from between my bent knees. I was outside, sitting on the sidewalk, with my back against the wall of a building. Vincent crouched in front of me, holding a tiny steaming cup of espresso a few inches away from my face, waving it around like smelling salts.

“Vincent,” I said, without thinking. His name felt natural coming from my mouth, like I had been saying it all my life.

“So you followed me,” he said, looking grim.

My head began to spin as a throbbing headache materialized just above the nape of my neck. “Ow,” I groaned, reaching back and massaging it with my hand.

“Drink this, then put your head back between your knees,” Vincent instructed. He placed the cup to my lips, and I threw it back in one gulp.

“That’s better. I’m just taking this cup back to the café next door. Don’t move, I’ll be right back,” he said as I closed my eyes.

I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to. I couldn’t even feel my legs. What happened? How did I get here? And then the memory came back to me, crushing me with its horror.

“Do you feel strong enough to take a taxi?” Vincent was back, squatting down to bring his face level with mine. “You’ve had quite a shock.”

“But . . . your friend! Jules!” I said, incredulous.

“Yes, I know.” He furrowed his brows. “But we can’t do anything about that now. We need to get you away from here.” He stood up and signaled a taxi. Lifting me to my feet and supporting me with a strong arm across my shoulders, he picked up my bag and walked me to the waiting car.

Vincent helped me inside, and scooting in beside me, he gave the driver an address on a street not far from my own.

“Where are we going?” I asked, suddenly concerned. My rational mind tapped me on the shoulder to remind me that I was in a car with someone who had not only just watched his friend die in front of a speeding train, but looked as calm as if it happened every day.

“I could take you to your house, but I’d rather take you to mine until you calm down. It’s just a few streets away.”

I can probably “calm down” better at my own house than at yours. My thought was interrupted as the meaning of his words clicked in. “You know where I live?” I gasped.

“I’ve already confessed to following around our neighborhood’s new American imports. Remember?” He flashed me a disarming smile. “Besides, who followed who into the Métro today?”

I blushed as I wondered how many times he had seen me as I wandered, oblivious that I was being watched.

And then the memory of Jules in the Métro returned and a tremor shook me. “Just don’t think. Don’t think,” Vincent whispered. At that moment, my emotions felt tugged in two opposite directions. I was frightened and confused by Vincent’s indifference to Jules’s death, but I desperately wanted him to comfort me.

His hand lay casually on his knee, and I had the strongest desire to grab it and press it to my cold face. To hold on to him and avoid slipping deeper under the wave of fear that threatened to engulf me. Jules’s fate echoed too loudly of my own parents’ accident. I felt like death had followed me across the Atlantic. It was trailing along in my wake, threatening to take everyone I knew.

And as if Vincent had heard my thoughts, his hand slid across the seat and pulled my fingers from where they were wedged between my knees. As he folded my hand inside his own, I was instantly enveloped in a feeling of safety. I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes for the rest of the drive.

The taxi came to a stop in front of a ten-foot-high stone wall set with massive iron gates. Their bars were fitted from behind with black metal sheets that tastefully blocked any view of what was inside. Thick wisteria vines draped over the edges of the wall, and a couple of stately trees were visible behind the barrier.

Vincent paid the taxi driver, then came around to my side and opened the door for me. He walked me up to a column embedded with a high-tech audiovisual security system.

The lock clicked after he typed the security code into a keypad. He pressed the gate open with one hand and pulled me gently behind him with the other. I gasped as I took in our surroundings.

I was standing in the cobblestone courtyard of a hôtel particulier, one of those in-town castles that wealthy Parisians built as their city dwellings in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. This one was built of massive honey-colored stones and peaked with a black slate roof with dormer windows spaced evenly along its length. The only time I had actually seen one of these buildings up close was when Mom and Mamie took me with them on a guided tour.

In the middle of the courtyard stood a circular fountain carved in granite, its dark gray basin big enough to swim a few strokes across. Over the splashing water stood a life-size stone figure of an angel carrying a sleeping woman in his arms. Her body was visible through the fabric of her dress, which was worked so finely by the sculptor that the heavy stone was transformed into the finest gauze. The woman’s fragile loveliness was offset by the strength of the male angel carrying her, his massive wings curving protectively over the two figures. It was a symbol combining beauty and danger, and it cast a sinister aura across the courtyard.

“You live here?”

“I don’t own the house, but yes, I live here,” Vincent said, walking me across the courtyard to the front door. “Let’s get you inside.”

Remembering the reason we were there, the sound of Jules’s body being crushed by a ton of metal resonated in my ears. The tears I had been holding back began to flow.

Vincent opened the ornately carved door and led me into an enormous entrance hall with a double staircase winding up either wall to a balcony overlooking the room. A crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen Beetle hung over our heads, and Persian rugs littered a marble floor inlaid with stone flowers and vines. What is this place? I thought.

I followed him through another door into a small, high-ceilinged room that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the seventeenth century, and sat down on an ancient stiff-backed couch. Holding my head in my hands, I leaned forward and closed my eyes. “I’ll be right back,” Vincent said, and I heard the door close as he left the room.

After a few minutes I felt stronger. Resting my head against the couch, I studied the imposing room. Heavy drapes at the window blocked the daylight. A delicate chandelier, which looked like it had originally been set with candles instead of the flame-shaped electric bulbs it now held, threw out just enough light to illuminate walls that were crowded with paintings. A dozen faces of bad-tempered, centuries-old French aristocrats frowned down at me.

A servants’ door hidden in the back wall swung open, and Vincent walked through. He set a massive porcelain teapot in the shape of a dragon and a matching cup onto the table in front of me next to a plate of paper-thin cookies. The fragrance of strong tea and almonds wafted up from the silver tray.

“Sugar and caffeine. Best medicine in the world,” Vincent said as he sat down in an upholstered armchair a few feet away.

I tried to pick up the heavy teapot, but my hands were shaking so hard I only succeeded in making it clatter against the cup. “Here, let me do that,” he said as he leaned over and poured. “Jeanne, our housekeeper, makes the best tea. Or so I’ve heard. I’m more a coffee man myself.”

I blanched at his small talk. “Okay, stop. Just stop right there.” My teeth were chattering: I couldn’t tell if it was my shattered nerves or the dawning fear that something was very wrong. “Vincent . . . whoever you are.” I’m in his house and I don’t even know his last name, I realized in a flash before continuing. “Your friend just died a little while ago, and you are talking to me about”—my voice broke—“about coffee?”

A defensive expression registered on his face, but he remained silent.

“Oh my God,” I said softly, and began crying again. “What is wrong with you?”

The room was silent. I could hear the seconds ticking away on an enormous grandfather clock in the corner. My breathing calmed, and I wiped my eyes, attempting to compose myself.

“It’s true. I’m not very good at showing my emotions,” Vincent conceded finally.

“Not showing your emotions is one thing. But running off after your friend is demolished by a subway train?”

In a low, carefully measured tone he said, “If we had stayed, we would have had to talk to the police. They would have questioned both of us, as they must have done with the witnesses who stayed. I wanted to avoid that”—he paused—“at all costs.”

Vincent’s cold shell was back, or else I had just begun noticing it again. Numbness spread up my arms and throughout my body as I realized what he was saying. “So you’re”—I choked—“you’re what? A criminal?”

His dark, brooding eyes were drawing me toward him while my mind was telling me to run away. Far away.