EXCERPT

I paced up and down the metro platform trying to figure out what to do next. If the newspapers had just hit the newsstand as I suspected, then it was possible Simon hadn't seen it yet. He could be walking around looking for me, unaware that he was a wanted man. I couldn't decide whether I should go to Luc's apartment to warn him since, after all, he had saved my life, or go to the U.S. Embassy as planned and leave him to his own devices. After all, he was the one who refused to go to the police in the first place. Not that it would have mattered since it was the "witness's" word against ours.

Then there was the matter of the truck. Neither of us had bothered wiping our prints from it before we dumped it. It was only a matter of time before they found the truck and ran our prints. I suddenly remembered I'd been fingerprinted the night of Juliet's murder, which meant I was screwed. As bad as I felt for Simon, I needed to get to the embassy and tell my side of the story before I was arrested. Then I suddenly remembered I still had Simon's business card. I could call and warn him.

I was just about to hunt for the card in my bag when I noticed the filthy bearded man from the train I'd just exited. He stood about twenty feet away from me showing a baby-faced, uniformed police officer the newspaper cover and pointing at me. He must have overheard the entire conversation between the woman and me. The officer and I made eye contact and I froze. He squinted at me then back at the newspaper. The lighting on the platform wasn't exactly the greatest. Quickly, I walked away, heading for the stairs to the street above.

"Madame!" He called out. I kept walking.

"Excusez-moi, madame!" His voice was louder this time, more commanding. I still didn't stop. "Arrêt, si vous plait! Arrêt maintenant!"

Blood was pounding in my ears as I rounded the corner. I pushed through the turnstile and felt the strap of my bag get caught, pulling me back. Crap! I tugged frantically at it. The officer rounded the corner just as I managed to get the strap free. Pushing past people, I ran like hell and took the steps to street level two at a time. My skinned knee made each step painful. The officer behind me yelled.

"Arrêt, police!"

I was almost at the top of the stairs. A cab was idling at the curb several feet away—just a few more steps and I'd be able to jump into that cab and escape. A hand grasped my ankle. The officer had dived face-first onto the staircase to reach me. He was lying in the middle of the stairway on his stomach. He was reaching for his gun with his free hand. Instinctively, I kicked out. The officer struggled to hold on to my ankle but in doing so bumped against a young woman walking up the stairs backward, pulling a baby stroller. She lost her grip.

"Mon bébé!" the young woman screamed.

The stroller bumped down the steps. He looked back at me, and for just a split second, I could tell he was torn. But he let go of my ankle and flew down the steps to catch the stroller before it could hit bottom and overturn. It was the break I needed. I ran up the remaining steps and practically flew into the cab.