The Missing Sister Page 13

  Here are the forgotten Parisians, immigrants and fringe members of society. As the car circles the block back up toward the main boulevard and the flickering streetlamps fade into the darkness behind me, I can only hope my phone buys a few weeks of groceries for those kids’ families. Even as I cannot believe my fucking luck.

  Chapter 16

  Day 5, Thursday

  The empty lots and cracks in the sidewalks appear more numerous in the bright sunshine. Dark tenements and tent towns are like postindustrial grave markers tallying the unexpected death of a dream held by each resident. My driver slows down at a stop sign but doesn’t stop.

  Last night when I returned home to Angela’s apartment, well past store hours of the phone retailer, I fell asleep, exhausted from the day’s informative-slash-unproductive activities, and the morale suck of having my phone stolen by grade school kids. I muttered plenty of curse words against them each time I felt the knee-jerk reaction to check the time/texts/emails. But I can’t bring myself to get angry—the tiny toes peeking through hole-riddled shoes won’t let me. Those kids reinforced a valuable lesson: no moment here is safe.

  The dilapidated building at Manu’s address squeezes in between two brick residential structures, both clearly more recent, judging from the stark white trim hugging their windowsills, in contrast to the peeling dark-green paint of Manu’s building. I should wait for Jean-Luc, but I’m early. Instead I pay the driver and go ahead on my own.

  A gentle push cracks open the building’s metal door. I don’t have the apartment number, but a row of mailboxes sits in the lobby, each labeled by tenant last name. WOOD 12 marks one box of a dozen.

  The week of her disappearance, that Wednesday, Angela was seen at the convenience store around the corner from her building (scene of my disturbing swastika encounter). Then, a few hours later, she was noted entering Manu’s apartment by a neighbor. We only know this because when Manu went missing, the police interviewed everyone in her building; the neighbor recalled a female visitor that day fitting Angela’s description. When she was shown a photo of my sister, it was confirmed.

  Sounds more common to nightlife swell in the stairwell. Moaning, bass music, glass breaking, scuffling, crying, and a baby’s coo. I turn back, deciding to wait for Jean-Luc after all, when a man descends the stairs. I press myself against the side as he squeezes past without making eye contact. His ducked head and rumpled pants could mean he’s late for work, but curiosity drives me to the landing, up to the fourth floor, where the bass music emanates. A door is partly ajar; the apartment is dark inside, its shades still drawn. A woman in a negligee sits within counting cash on a table.

  The floorboard beneath me creaks. She snaps her head up. She’s young and beautiful, and at first glance the bustier she wears might suggest a wife titillating her husband. Then she shifts forward into the light of the single lamp, and dark roots blend into shabbily bleached hair, revealing an ache in her expression and accentuating circles under haunted eyes. She rises with purpose, walking to the door slow enough to make my heart pound in my chest—then slams it shut in my face.

  Emmanuelle?

  Panicked, I scan for the apartment number and realize she’s a neighbor. The neighbor? The one who saw Angela enter Manu’s apartment? Before I think better of it, I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. “Bonjour?”

  Movement is audible inside, but I can’t tell if she’s still sitting at the table counting money or has disappeared into a back bedroom to ignore me. I try again—“Hello?” There are at least a dozen residents in this building, and any one of them could have reported Angela’s visit.

  I move down the hall to Manu’s apartment. Blood pounds in my ears. “Bonjour?” I tap my knuckles against the door. It falls open. “Emmanuelle?”

  Inside, the tidy front room, devoid of electronics and clutter, could belong to a middle-aged woman instead of an early-twenties college student. Shoes are lined up neatly in a row beside the door, and an orange, knit blanket is folded artfully on a modest love seat, one section peeled over like unfinished origami. A pile of magazines on an end table is squared up along each edge. The dead bolt dangles from the door as though someone kicked it in from the outside.

  A punch of sharp air hits my nose, churning my stomach. Something rancid was forgotten here. Dishes are piled in the sink, and I turn in the opposite direction if only to get away from the stench. The bedroom resembles a San Francisco apartment, no bigger than a shoebox. Photos blanket every flat surface from the dresser to a bulletin board. A young, heavyset woman with curly waves of hair, a stern nose, and a small chin smiles in most photos or pouts with girlfriends. Photo after photo shows a girl full of life, happiness, and deep thoughts. Pensive, artistic photos of her facing away in desert landscapes have the prized location on a shelf facing the made bed, crisp corners tucked in army-style. As though she would see these last before falling asleep at night.

  I scan the space, searching for an indication that Manu is alive and safe—maybe a receipt from yesterday’s lunch. Some hint to clear Angela’s name so Valentin can focus on my sister as the victim again.

  One lacquered wooden frame sits in the middle of the dresser top, plain and unique among the other sparkly frames, protecting a picture of Emmanuelle and an attractive man. Their cheeks press lovingly against one another, rich skin glowing in the sunlight behind the camera. Stubble lines his jaw, while his green-gray eyes carry a weight absent from Emmanuelle’s. Dimples dot each cheek, and a curl of black hair hangs above one eye. I grab the photo and examine it up close. He’s the same guy in Angela’s photo. The one I found that first day with Seb, searching through boxes. Is this Emmanuelle’s boyfriend? Did Angela steal her boyfriend?

  A floorboard moans in the hall. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I hold my breath, straining to hear movement. Sliding the frame into my handbag, I peek into the living room.

  “Shayna?” Jean-Luc nudges the door open. Techno music begins to blast from the apartment across the hall, with the lyrics screamed at the top of the singer’s lungs.

  “Hey, Sherlock. Come on in.”

  He closes the door, shutting out some of the noise. He pauses beside the broken lock. “Whose apartment is this?”

  “Angela’s friend. This morning I knocked on your door, but you weren’t there.”

  Jean-Luc pinches his nose, coming too close to the kitchen. “Yeah, I had an early meeting at the office. Bitch work is required at all hours.” He steps back, examining the faded couch and patchwork throw pillows. A pile of mail is stacked on the kitchen counter. “What are we doing here, Shayna?”

  I shush him with a finger, and his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “I’ll be quick,” I whisper. “I’m looking for something. Take a seat if you want.”

  Although his cheeks begin to burn red, looping Jean-Luc or anyone else into details is not part of my plan. And if I’m honest, that hasn’t been my mode of operation for years. That’s probably why no one has contacted me, worried or concerned when I disappeared from San Diego and didn’t tell anyone—not even my aunts. I know Jean-Luc could get in trouble, but I’m all selfishness this week. And I learned my lesson against getting too close to Frenchmen on Monday.

  Jean-Luc spreads his hands. He hasn’t moved from beside the doorway. “Shouldn’t we say hi at another time when she’s home? I don’t like this. Seriously.” His gaze darts around the room like he’s afraid the love seat cushions will come to life. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

  I adopt an innocent expression, all wide eyes and parted lips. “A photo of Angela and her friend. Or something that might look good at the memorial for Angela.”

  He nods too deeply and slowly to be buying my story, surveying the space. There aren’t any windows here. Only a door beyond the kitchen, leading to a bathroom or pantry, probably. He toys with a stack of beer coasters, then marches into the bedroom. After a few seconds, a drawer is opened and shut. He stalks back out, furious.

  “We’re leav
ing.”

  “What? Why?” My hands are full of coupons from the sideboard.

  “You lied to me, Shayna. I can’t be here. I’ve seen this girl’s photo on the news—Emmanuelle Wood. She’s missing.” He grinds his teeth, wavering between the exit and the back wall, where I stand. “I’m a fucking embassy employee, Shayna. I can’t be here.”

  “Shit.” I smack a hand to my forehead, making a show of it. His eyebrows plunge deeper. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think of that. Give me a few minutes, then we’ll leave. Cool?”

  “Shayna, no, I can’t. Not cool. You know, for someone who’s gotten the short end of the stick in life—you sure don’t hesitate to poke people with it.” I open my mouth to object, but he lifts a hand to stop me. “I have to leave now. Can’t believe you brought me here.” He uses the bottom part of his shirt to wipe the coasters he had just been touching, then wipes down the doorknob, muttering in French. He knocks it open with his foot.

  “Hey, wait—where are you going?”

  He turns back, slowly. His eyes narrow, taking me and the scene behind me in. “Somewhere else, Shayna. This is . . . not okay.”

  We’ve only known each other a few days, and he’s been beyond helpful to my search even without understanding it fully. He’s the first person I’ve felt some human connection to in a long time. The realization leaves me feeling cold, clammy. Seeing his angry expression now tightens my chest.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, Jean-Luc.” The words sound bulky in my mouth, unpracticed and unrehearsed, and he knows it. His face sours like he can see the struggle my tongue makes to wrap around unfamiliar letters. Once, they were familiar. Back when I had anyone to apologize to.

  Jean-Luc steps through and shuts the door with his foot as much as it will let him. My chest buckles hearing him clamber down the rickety steps, fills with regret at the greedy impulse to bring him along, knowing full well he could get in trouble if caught. Flickers of panic lick my neck and clench my throat before I push the old emotions back. Jean-Luc won’t forgive me for this. I could see it in the sneer of his mouth.

  Fine. Add him to the list.

  If Manu really is missing, she won’t mind that I took her picture frame. I just need something to vindicate Angela—maybe a recent note from her to Manu with a #BFF in the postscript. Anything to prove my sister couldn’t actually have a role in making another person disappear.

  Jean-Luc is right. I shouldn’t be trusted.

  My belly growls. I have half a mind to dig around Manu’s pantry but for the overwhelming stench of molding cheese. No. Something more substantial, heavier. A weightier stench that pricks my eyes the closer I get to the kitchen. My stomach seizes as I pass the front door. On the dishes in the sink, I can see rotting leftover dinner—cabbage, half-eaten beefsteak, and peas so shriveled they could replace BB gun ammunition cling to the plates. The closer I creep, the more crushing the odor becomes in the unventilated apartment, and I cover my mouth, bile threatening to climb my throat. Still, dirty dishes don’t seem like enough to account for the smell. With forefinger and thumb, I move a few plates here and there, checking under each for the culprit, when a new stench reaches my nostrils. From beneath the counter.

  I step away from the closed cabinet below the sink. My heart pounds, louder than the neighbor’s bass. A new wave of nausea clenches my stomach. It could be a garbage can or expired food stuck in the disposal.

  Used diapers, though I didn’t see any sign of children.

  A dead rat.

  My hand shakes, reaching for the handle as I mentally try to place the odor. I bite the inside of my cheek, wishing Jean-Luc had stayed. When were the police here last? I tug on the handle, only the cabinet won’t open. I tug again. It’s stuck. I pull harder and brace a foot against the other door.

  The cabinet falls open. Discolored flesh highlights black veins that spider along an arm, a leg, a naked body bunched and folded at the hips to fit into the cubed space. Glitter nail polish shines in perfect condition on hands folded across the chest. Black hair hangs forward, covering the face. My eyes shoot to the door, but it’s still closed, trapping us in here together.

  Hysteria claws my chest, building into a scream, but I clap both hands over my mouth. Valentin’s accented English echoes in my ears. Neighbors. Series murderer. A keepsake bracelet dangles from the body’s wrist, little symbols extending from the main chain. The Eiffel Tower. A heart. A dog. A boy and girl holding hands.

  Counting to ten does little to calm my heart rate but allows me to watch the arm, alternately hoping it moves and that it doesn’t. The fingers don’t twitch. I don’t touch anything, but I toe the cabinet door open a bit farther to see inside. Black rings circle each ankle. Ligature marks.

  My belly contracts, and I heave, the croissant I ate for breakfast splattering across the floor, amplifying the smell. I lurch to my feet and slam against the counter. Everything I touched and marred with my fingerprints—the doorknob, the cabinet, the dresser—flashes across my vision and is enough to make me dry heave again. Angela is implicated, Valentin said.

  Floorboards groan somewhere else in the building. I wipe my chin with the back of my hand and grab a dish towel from the counter to mop up my sick, then shove it in a plastic bag I find in the pantry. I wait a full minute before tiptoeing to the front door. The stairwell is empty. Body odor lingers in the air and melds with the underlying dust.

  Who killed this woman? How long has she been here? Valentin’s assertion that Manu is a missing person just became even more frightening since there’s a body underneath her sink. Is that Manu? What kind of past does Manu hide—a history of violence? The body could have been placed there after the police did their sweep. Right? Even as I try to logic through this, nothing makes sense. I can’t think straight with the arm so close, so stiff. What the fuck is going on? What was a hopeful visit to find some clue, some hint of evidence to vindicate Angela from Valentin’s suspicion, just turned into another nightmare.

  I should try to ID her; I know it.

  My fevered breathing turns to ugly sobs, and I stumble downstairs, techno music amplifying my frenzy.

  The neighbor. The john descending the stairs. Jean-Luc. All the people who saw me here, wearing Angela’s face, surge to mind in a torrent of regret. All witnesses, capable of identifying me and confirming my suspicious actions. I spin along banisters, no longer touching anything, no longer careless and naive about the record of my being here.

  I land on the first-floor foyer with the same thought repeating over and over in my head: two dead bodies in one week. The front door swings open as a gust of wind catches it, and I barely break stride, pounding the pavement in my flip-flops. Rhythmic human screams nip at my elbows, stay with me and ring in my ears the length of the block, until street noise finally drowns out the neighbor’s stereo.

  Chapter 17

  Deep gulps of air burn my throat and batter my lungs. Pollution hangs low on the outskirts of Paris, and a bakery truck belches a cloud of gray past me. New tears sting my eyes, but I don’t slow my pace. I run until I spy an empty cab with an illuminated UNOCCUPIED sign, then get in and lock the doors. My breath catches, and I struggle to tell the cab driver where to go.

  “Eh, mademoiselle, ça va?” He turns to me from the front seat, neon reflective sunglasses revealing little.

  “I’m fine. Just go, please.” When he hesitates, I add “Allez!” We merge into traffic to join the stream of cars navigating the morning rush hour. People honk and gesture while staring at their phones, cutting off other drivers. The routine is calming, the normalcy what I need in a place and situation that feels like a constant out-of-body experience.

  As I withdraw my hand from my bag, it cramps, bent in the shape of the picture frame, red where my grip wedged to it. The grooves of the wooden frame imprint a right angle on my skin, an L that remains like a pointed finger after we cross over the Seine. Thief. Evidence. Implicated.

  The driver slams on his brakes, and the frame
flies from my hand. It clangs to the floor and knocks against the middle console, breaking the frame’s stand. “Hey!” I look up; we are two inches from a delivery truck’s bumper. The driver shoots me an annoyed glance in the rearview mirror. I pick up the pieces of splintered wood and the frame. The glass is intact, at least. “Watch the road, please,” I mumble.

  His hands scroll for a new song on his phone, ignoring me.

  “Hey, s’il vous plaît, the road!” I nod my chin at the empty space before us, the delivery truck already thirty feet ahead. The car behind us honks. “Allez?”

  The driver has been muttering in French since he slammed on the brakes, and his stream of commentary ticks up in volume here. He yanks the parking brake, yells that if I don’t like it I should drive in morning traffic. Then he points to the door. We’re more than a few blocks away from my destination, but I pay him for the total thus far and get out.

  “Nous sommes arrivés, mademoiselle!” the driver yells when I slam the door shut. As he peels away to merge back into traffic, I try to collect myself. Nous sommes arrivés, mademoiselle. We’re here. The same words (in a much different tone) were spoken by the driver on my first day as I arrived in Montmartre. Stepping onto the sidewalk I feel exposed, raw. Like the universe is telling me a riddle in pig Latin after a round of Seb’s Calvados. There’s a trash bin nearby, and I toss my plastic bag of sick in.

  Five blocks later, the crowd swells and carries me beyond the curb to the busy storefronts of the Champs-Élysées. Angela’s Tuesday outing. Two women pass wearing matching wide-brimmed black hats, exclaiming over the lucky buy they found. I find a store window with mannequins in swimsuits modeling the hats, then duck inside. Planting myself beside a rack of clothing, I wait for my pulse to settle. After what I just ran from then ran into, I wonder if I should have left Angela’s apartment at all today.

  A body. There’s a body in Manu’s apartment. Another thought strikes me, and my hand flies to my mouth. What if that was Angela?