Amy opened her eyes the next morning to another beautiful day. Only this time, she didn’t feel any lovely waves of contentment washing over her.

She hadn’t slept well. No nightmares had kept her awake, just a general restlessness. There were too many troubling thoughts crowding her head. Like the neo-Nazis.

And Andy. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something was wrong, and it was all very confusing.

Their evening together had been lovely. They’d eaten a really good pizza and gone to a fair in the Tuileries gardens by the Louvre, where they’d played a few games and taken a ride on the Ferris wheel. It had stopped while they were at the top, and Andy had pointed out some important sights. But every time Amy asked him anything personal—why he’d chosen to become an exchange student in Paris, when he planned on going back to the United States—he became vague and changed the subject. It was as if he had some secret that he couldn’t share with her.

She thought maybe he was in some kind of trouble back home or here in Paris. That maybe he’d committed a crime and was in hiding. It would explain why he’d tried to hide his identity from her when she first saw him. He didn’t want to get her involved. But what kind of crime could Andy have committed? Nothing made sense.

She glanced over at Monica and saw that her eyes were open. And she was smiling.

“What are you thinking about?” Amy asked her.

“Christophe.”

“Oh.”

Monica sat up. “Amy, I know I said I was taking a vacation from men. But Christophe is different. There’s something so pure about him.”

“Pure?” Amy repeated doubtfully. That wasn’t a word she would ever associate with Christophe.

“Maybe because he’s so carefree,” Monica mused. “He hasn’t been corrupted by the working world.”

“No kidding,” Amy murmured. She had a feeling that Christophe had never done a day of work in his life.

“He doesn’t get any appreciation as an artist here,” Monica continued. “The art establishment is just too conservative, he says. I’ll bet he’d do very well in the U.S. if he knew the right people who could connect him.”

“People like you?” Amy teased.

Monica smiled.

Amy tried to smile back, though the thought of Christophe DuPont living next door to her in Los Angeles didn’t thrill her. Clearly, Monica saw something in him that Amy couldn’t see. She just hoped that for once Monica was right about a guy.

At least Christophe wasn’t spending the day with them. They hit more museums, Amy’s favorite being the Rodin Museum, where she was transfixed by a sculpture called The Kiss. It showed a man and woman locked in a passionate embrace. She was glad Andy wasn’t with her. It made her blush.

She was supposed to see him tonight. Amy had told him she would be coming to the Lycée Internationale to meet Annie when the school day was over, and though she knew it was hopeless, she had invited him to hang with them. But he’d said he had something to do right after school, and he’d meet her at Café Chocolat. She’d have to be satisfied with that.

At three o’clock Amy left Monica back at the Louvre Museum. She was burned out on art and took off to meet Annie.

It was still early when she reached the Lycée Internationale. School wouldn’t let out for at least half an hour. As she gazed at the impressive building, she started wondering if the inside was anything like an American school.

Why not find out?

The lobby was empty when she opened the front door, and she didn’t see any offices nearby. She suspected she shouldn’t be doing this, but if anyone caught her she’d just go into her dumb tourist routine. She walked quickly down a hall, thinking she’d be able to get a look at classrooms through the door windows. But the doors in this school didn’t have windows, so there wasn’t much to see.

She went into a stairwell and was about to go upstairs when she heard voices. Not ready to get caught just yet, she went downstairs instead.

There didn’t seem to be much going on down below. In fact, this lower level appeared to be totally deserted. She wandered around for a while, peeking inside closets stuffed with reams of paper, cartons of chalk, and other school supplies. Nothing very intriguing.

One door led into a much larger room, and in the darkness she could make out shelves of books. She hit a light switch on the wall. The resulting illumination came from just one weak bulb, but it was enough for her to peruse the bookcases.

This was definitely more interesting. She discovered old French textbooks, dusty and full of old-fashioned pictures and out-of-date information. One was a history of the United States published in 1955, which stated that the U.S. was made up of forty-eight states. Another was a science book published in 1962, which ended with John Glenn’s orbit of the moon as the most amazing feat in space.

Most of the stuff was fascinating, but one book gave her the creeps. It was a math textbook, and the inside cover was stamped with the name of the school and the year 1942. That was during the German Occupation. Part of the stamp bore a swastika. Seeing it sent a chill through Amy.

She almost dropped the book when she heard the door to the room open. Silently she bent down behind the bookcase. She really didn’t want to have to play stupid tourist again if she didn’t absolutely have to. And what would a tourist be doing in the lower level of a Paris high school anyway?

In her crouched position, she peered between some books and saw a figure moving toward the far wall. The person then proceeded to pull a packed bookcase away from the wall without much effort. That seemed really odd. Rising slightly, Amy found another gap between two books to look through.

It was a good thing that the bookcase made a loud scraping sound, because it masked Amy’s sharp intake of breath. The person pulling the bookcase was Andy.

What was he up to?

Finally the wall behind the bookcase was exposed. The only thing she could see was a long crack running down part of the wall. She watched as Andy placed his fingers on the crack—no, in the crack. In fact, it wasn’t a crack, it was the edge of a door.

Suddenly Amy remembered that Andy had said there was an old entrance to the Catacombs under the school. This had to be it.

He got the door slightly open, just wide enough for him to slip through. As he did, he turned slightly, and that was when she saw it.

A black armband. On Andy’s right arm.

With the mark of a swastika.