Eric, his police officer friend Yann, and I climb out of the car in front of the Photo de Luxe Studios.

We just drove through the streets of Paris at a speed that would’ve earned us a ticket if we weren’t in a police car.

At around ten this morning I realized Lucas had sneaked out before the end of the workout. I pulled Eric aside and told him about Clément. He called his cop buddy and convinced him tracking Lucas’s phone and intercepting him ASAP was a matter of life and death for France’s most promising coach.

Because having suffered brain damage in the past, a second head injury might turn him into a vegetable.

We push the revolving doors and run upstairs.

Yann asks several men and women if they’ve seen Clément. The tracking software gave us the building but can’t deliver Lucas’s exact location in it. We run down hallways and open doors, drawing curious glances and raised eyebrows.

A woman of average size and height says she may be able to help. We gather around her. She’d look perfectly fine outside the studio’s walls, but here, surrounded by these creatures, aka models, she looks like an Italian mamma.

“I saw Clément, and some angry-looking dude get on the elevator a few minutes ago.” She points to the elevator doors at the end of the hall.

“Is the roof accessible?” Yann asks her.

She shakes her head.

“Is there an underground parking garage?” he asks again.

“Yes,” she says. “Those elevators will take you down there.”

We run, take the elevator down, and run again.

When we find them, both are yelling and shoving each other, but no fists are flying yet.

“Stop!” Yann hollers, “On the ground, both of you!”

A minute later, it’s over.

Clément and Lucas are cuffed, led out of the building, and shoved into Yann’s car. Eric and I are asked to take the métro.

“You can come to the station and check on your “Avenger” later this afternoon,” Yann says, waving goodbye to us.

My eyes are on “my Avenger” the whole time, but he won’t look at me.

“Can later this afternoon be interpreted as 1:00 p.m.?” I ask Eric, glancing at my watch.

“I don’t think so.” He pats my shoulder. “Come on, we just did something very impressive. All that action and adrenaline. Don’t you think we deserve a good lunch?”

“OK,” I say with a sigh. “Can we eat in this neighborhood?”

Eric scrunches his face apologetically. “Afraid not. Now that I’ve saved Lucas’s life, I need to get to my car and save my car from being towed. I’ll move it, we’ll eat, and drive back here.”

If it were up to me, I’d camp on the sidewalk across from the station for a couple of hours, and try my luck. But Eric needs to rescue his car and vent about our “mission.” With everything he’s done this morning, I owe him.

Three hours later, we return to Yann’s station. Lawyers were called, papers were signed, and both Clément and Lucas were released with a warning not to try anything stupid again.

“I told your coach we’ll be going after Clément for the violation of the Good Samaritan Law,” Yann says to us.

Eric’s eyes widen. “Can you do that?”

“In this country,” Yann says, “you’re liable before both civil and criminal courts if you deliberately fail to render assistance to a person in danger, which is exactly what Clément did six years ago.”

“Does that mean he might go to jail?” I ask.

Yann nods. “He might get up to five years in prison, a fine, and be ordered to pay compensation to the victim.”

I frown, remembering Lucas’s list of priorities. “Even if the victim refuses to sue him?”

“Lucas doesn’t need to sue him,” Yann says. “I saw the photos in his file and the ER doctor’s report. There’s also usable DNA.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “Can you explain for us lay people?”

Yann smiles. “Six years ago, Lucas fell and hit his temple. Head wounds like that produce spectacular gore. Think blood spurting with every heartbeat. With the DNA from their fight, we’ll have proof Clément was there. And even if he hires an army of lawyers, they’ll have a hard time convincing the judge that it hadn’t occurred to Clément when he ran away that Lucas would bleed out and die.”

“I hope Clément goes to prison,” Eric says.

God knows, I hope so, too.

We thank Yann for everything and leave the station.

“Hop in.” Eric points to his car. “I’ll drive you to Lucas’s.”

Does he suspect something?

He laughs. “I was going to wait until you or Lucas felt comfortable enough to tell me about your relationship, but the way things have accelerated…”

Oh.

He doesn’t suspect. He knows.

“For the record,” I say as we drive off. “We don’t have a relationship, strictly speaking.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” he says.

I smile, but given Lucas’s track record, I’m not at all sure sleeping with him will lead to a relationship. I don’t know if he wants a relationship with me. Truth be told, I don’t even know which Lucas will open the door in a few minutes, the old one or the new.

Assuming he’s home and he opens the door.

Twenty minutes later, Eric wishes me good luck and drives away.

I buzz from downstairs.

Nothing happens.

So I wait until someone comes out and enter the building. I run to the second floor and ring the bell.

In vain.

I pull out my phone and call Lucas, almost certain he won’t pick up.

No answer.

He must’ve gone to his parents’ place, I tell myself.

Or maybe he just needed to be by himself, somewhere outside Paris, where he can breathe. Wherever he is, he clearly doesn’t want to see or talk to me.

I toy with my phone. On a crazy impulse, I type up an email and send it to Lucas.