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“Mlle Levallois, I want to show you something. Someone, rather.”

The guards hold Andrée upright. She can barely focus. Everything hurts. But then she sees . . .

Across the room there’s another door. When it opens there are more guards, and, standing between them, Dancer.

Andrée’s breath catches. Dancer. Her friend and comrade is now a beaten, bloody mess who can barely stand.

“Do you know this woman?” Captain Vernet asks.

Andrée doesn’t answer. Can’t.

“She knows you. She’s told us quite a lot about you. About your parents. About the Thursday meetings. About the forged documents. About everything, really. She was very . . . cooperative. Eventually.”

Dancer lifts her head. Meets Andrée’s eyes. Her face is bruised, swollen. But her eyes are clear. They are desperate eyes, and so apologetic.

“Andrée.” Dancer’s voice is hoarse, thoroughly broken. “I held out. I swear I held out. But they brought Philippe into the room. They put a gun to his head. They said they would shoot him right there in front of me if I didn’t talk.”

Tears stream down Dancer’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. But he’s eight. He’s just a child. I couldn’t let them. I couldn’t . . .”

“I understand,” Andrée says. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, distant and calm. “You chose your son. I would have done the same.”

“I’m sorry,” the broken woman sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Where is Philippe now?” Andrée asks.

Captain Vernet smiles. “He’s safe. Unharmed for now, if she continues to cooperate.”

“Then she will,” Andrée says. “She’ll tell you whatever you want. For Philippe. She’ll do anything for Philippe.”

“I know,” Captain Vernet says. “Mothers are so predictable. Take them both back to their cells.”

As the guards drag Dancer away, she calls back, “Andrée . . .”

“It’s all right,” Andrée says. “Tell Philippe we all love him.”

Then she is gone. And Andrée is alone with Captain Vernet.

“You see,” he says, “everyone breaks eventually. Even you, Mlle Levallois. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Perhaps,” Andrée says. “But by then, it won’t matter. By then, they’ll have scattered. Changed locations. Gone underground. Whatever information you get from me will be useless.”

“We’ll see,” he says. “We’ll see.”

It’s early morning, before dawn Andrée guesses, when her cell door opens.

“Get up. You’re being transferred.”

Transferred? She doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. Transferred where? To what?

They take her upstairs, walk her through corridors and into a courtyard. Two cars wait, their engines running. Other prisoners are being loaded. Andrée recognizes none of them.

But then she sees them.

Across the courtyard, illuminated by the floodlights, being brought out of a different entrance, her parents.

Louis and Tina look old, so much older than a mere five days ago. They look even thinner and they’re both hunched over. Her father’s face is bruised. Her mother’s arm hangs at an odd angle.

But they’re alive. They’re here. They’re . . .