Rigor mortis had already set in but she managed to pry the piece of paper from the victims cold, lifeless hand.

She looked into his eyes, saw how they were cloudy and grey, like a sky on a stormy night. She felt like he was watching her, judging her. “Pardon, Monsieur” she whispered, genuinely remorseful, as she heaved the knife out of his bloated chest. She began to walk down the streets of France with iron steps, her beaten leather boots slapping the cobbled stones, echoing through the alleys of Avenue Montaigne. She glanced back behind her at the body she had left to rot. She felt for the paper she had stuffed in her pocket, pulling it out in one swift movement. She read what was written on the note

‘Mademoiselle, they’re coming for you...’ was wrote in steady cursive. A gasp escaped her lips as she dropped the note. They had found her. There was nowhere else to go as she heard the beat of horses sound off behind her. This was the end. She was Looking into a dead mans eyes.

(P.s if anyone reads this and dose not speak French ‘pardon, monsieur’ just means ‘I’m sorry, sir’)