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undercover , which means I have to act as if I am one of them. Haven’t you ever watched any of those crime shows back in the—” Julien’s eyes widened as he muttered under his breath. “ Merde .” He grabbed my arm and pulled me down another dirt path behind a pack of tourists.
    “What is it?”
    “Don’t turn around,” he hissed through his teeth. “The police have followed us here. They must’ve gotten my plate numbers and trailed us from Paris.”
    I swiveled my head to the side to see Officer Laroche and Officer Fournier holding my photo and talking to a man in a pair of brown trousers with green suspenders stretching over his pot-belly.  
    “I told you not to look,” Julien scolded. “Here, put these on.” He shoved his sunglasses into my hands and herded me further into the crowd of tourists.
    “I’m not putting these on. I’m not doing this anymore. I’m going to go talk to them and demand that they take me to the U.S. embassy. I haven’t done anything wrong, so I’m sure it’s all a big misunderstanding and once they find Claude—the real criminal—they’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
    Julien tightened his grip on my arm as we stayed sandwiched in between two fanny-pack clad Korean women and a group of high-school aged French kids.
    “Don’t you understand? They are not looking for Claude at the moment. They are looking for you. And if they get a hold of you, you will not be going to the embassy to get a new passport,” Julien said, his whisper ringing with agitation. “Remember, Claude is a scam artist. He takes rich women’s belongings, taps into their bank accounts, ties some of the money to illegal activity, making it look as if the woman is responsible. Meanwhile, he steals the rest and wires it into an off-shore account. So the police will not believe anything you are saying until they run a full investigation. And by the time they are finished, Claude will be long gone with your money and your passport, and you will have missed your wedding.”
    I wondered if Paul had gotten wind of the whopping $33,000 that Claude had already transferred out of our account. My stomach clenched just thinking about it. He was going to flip out. And he would flip out even more if he found out that all of this was happening because I’d allowed some strange French man into my hotel room. Continuing the lies was unbearable, unimaginable. But even so, I couldn’t tell Paul about bringing Claude into my room. Not if I still wanted him to marry me in six days.
    “So if I can’t go back to the police, what am I supposed to do now?” I asked.
    Julien peered over his shoulder as he continued to whisper in my ear. “You will come with me to Annecy. We will be there by tonight, we will get your passport, and you can fly home tomorrow. But if you choose to go back to the police, you are on your own.”
    I suddenly envisioned myself sitting alone in a cold, cement jail cell while scary police officers yelled at me in French and Paul waited for me at the airport, peeking at his watch every five seconds, wondering where I could be. Then I thought of Paul getting a call from the police telling him I’d been seduced by a French con-artist who’d taken all my things.
    The wedding would be cancelled. My life would be in ruins, just as Julien had warned.
    I had to go to Annecy to find my passport. What other choice did I have?
    “So, can we leave for Annecy right now?” I asked.
    “Yes, but first, we have to get away from those officers.” Julien held my hand as we picked up our pace, weaving through the mob of picture-happy tourists. “Follow me.”
    We squeezed through a wall of chatty English women, and once we’d made it to the other side, Julien pulled me off the path and around a giant willow tree facing a gorgeous green pond. He gathered me into his chest, then reached around and tucked my hair down the back of the dress.
    “What are—”
    “Shhh,” he whispered. “They will be passing