The Missing Sister Page 14

  “Shayna?”

  I yelp and knock into a rack of camisoles. The flimsy tops fall to the ground in a pile. Seb studies me from beside a table of women’s jeans, dark eyebrows stitched together. Yellow squash pokes from a reusable shopping bag slung over his arm.

  “This is why you did not return my calls or texts? Because you would rather shop than recount Angela’s steps together? Did I catch you between stores at the catacombs yesterday?” The pain in his voice makes me glad he’s standing against the storefront window, the sun behind him hiding his face. The satin top in my fist might as well be a smoking gun. Fury fills me at his accusatory tone.

  “Actually, yes. I would love to be shopping rather than recount . . . retracing my sister’s steps!” The noisy cluck of saleswomen at the back counter pauses. “Look, Seb.” I run a hand down my jaw, try to act normal. Try to remember what that is at this point. What is he even doing here? Is this his normal jaunt home? Was he following me? “I needed some space after . . . after Monday.”

  He takes a hard step forward. “What happened does not matter, Shayna. What matters is learning Angela’s fate before you leave.” He grips my arms. “I cannot do this alone, Shayna. I have tried. I did not want to push you yesterday, but seeing you here, I need your help. Please.” His voice cracks.

  Blue eyes stare with such intensity, I can’t tell if it’s meant for me or Angela. “Are you listening?” His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept well. A loud buzzing flits past my ear, then a fly lands on Seb’s shoulder. He slaps it, leaving a trace of wing, before wiping his hand on his cargo shorts. “My apartment is nearby across the river. Will you come with me and work together again? I worry about you.”

  Etiquette would suggest at least grabbing a coffee. But I’ve used up my quota of niceties for Seb. I eye him again, with Valentin’s claim about his dishonorable discharge in mind; Seb still seems lonely, sad, and in mourning. No outward sign of imbalance. The yellow tank top he wears emphasizes thick shoulders and beefy arms. A tattoo of a rooster peeks from his neckline above his heart. He shifts his weight, waiting for my answer, and the tension leaches from his frame until he just appears neglected, needy.

  “Shayna, we could—”

  “No, Seb. We are not a team. You and Angela were a team, maybe, but not us.”

  He straightens. His jaw pulses as he meets my gaze. “You and Angela are the team. Always.”

  A few days ago, I would have stopped to puzzle over his words, to wonder whether he truly felt that way all along and whether it was me who misinterpreted, out of jealousy, their twin-like bond. On day five, I’m happy I haven’t revealed anything I shouldn’t. “Seb, I want to know what happened, too. I will figure this out.”

  His eyes dart back and forth between mine, then he crushes me with a bear hug. Conflicting emotions rise in me—relief and aversion—and make me grit my teeth against the impulse to shove him away. I pat his back instead. Words of stumbling reassurance muffle against his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” he whispers. “Please excuse me, I—I am not sure what came over me.” His eyes turn red as he stares at a framed handbag on the wall. “Angela and I used to buy groceries together. She loved walking down this street toward Napoleon’s arch.”

  “I promise I’ll email you if I find anything useful. Okay? I need to get going now.”

  Once he waves goodbye from the storefront, I grab the wide-brimmed black hat I was eyeing and head to the cashier to pay the thirty-six euros. It’s the least I can do since the staff didn’t chuck us from the premises. Added bonus, I’ll own a first line of defense against serial killers: camouflage.

  Behind the counter, two teen girls discuss something hilarious, heads tilted back, mouths agape with silent laughter. They stop when I approach, and a mean little voice inside me says they witnessed my reunion.

  Outside, a movie theater across the street presents advertisements of recent films—a macro reminder that the world still turns while mine is at a standstill. A group of women passes, and glittery nails fill my vision. Did Angela like glitter, or did she think it was a form of warfare from the way it stuck to everything? Why did I leave Manu’s apartment without doing what I should have—identify the body?

  I buy a ticket for the next movie so I can sit in darkness and digest this morning’s events. Angela once received a birthday card whose front was covered in rainbow glitter; she threw it away after opening it. (Definitely, warfare.) Those nails weren’t my sister’s. Was that Emmanuelle’s body, then? When did she go missing, exactly? How could Angela be implicated in Emmanuelle’s disappearance if she herself is missing? An ugly thought surges forward, along with the immediate sting of regret: What if Angela is missing because of her involvement in Emmanuelle’s disappearance?

  In the movie, two friends are in love with two sisters, and they scheme to convince the women to accompany them to a destination wedding. When one of the sisters disappears and the heroine turns to her lover for help, the theater stops being a safe place. I get fidgety and leave.

  Wandering back among the crowds, I clutch the shoulder strap of my bag and pull my hat down low. The picture frame adds a new weight to my tissues and passport, one that announces itself with each bang against my hip—I will not be ignored—clang clang—I am here—clang. Angela is not typically the Other Woman. It’s not her style; she believes in love and white horses too much. It seems outlandish she would go after another woman’s man, disrupting their lives so much she earns herself a stalker. She would never fight for a man to begin with, instead insisting he should recognize her value on his own. A street performer calls to me on his microphone, but I walk faster and move out of range.

  Something is off about the romantic photo of Emmanuelle and the heartthrob. It was the only photo of him in the bedroom. Did they break up and she burned the rest of them? Is he photo shy and that’s the only good one of him? The GQ picture I found in Angela’s box says otherwise.

  If the neighbor hasn’t realized there’s a dead body in Manu’s apartment by now, she will soon. That acrid smell will grow worse—and lead police straight to my fingerprints on the doorknob. A shudder crawls across my shoulders despite the morning heat. Jean-Luc had the right idea in wiping down his prints.

  Five days have come and gone, and I’m no closer to discovering what happened to my sister. Five days. Bits of clues and a list of people to avoid keeps growing, but Angela’s whereabouts remain just outside my understanding. I’ve done everything people in the know have done or suggested: Seb’s idea to retrace Angela’s steps, Valentin’s police work telling me those precise last steps, Nour’s suggestion to visit Delphine, and even Jean-Luc’s cautious guidance at the restaurant. Each form of advice was offered with other priorities in mind. Official constraints placed on each move. This whole time, I’ve been chasing someone else’s idea of how to find my sister. Someone else’s idea of Angela.

  I set off toward the hill of Montmartre at a brisk pace.

  Angela’s apartment was turned upside down and inside out by the police, judging from the box of evidence in Valentin’s office. She knows I would never gain access to something the police would consider important; every clue she thought I’d need I must have already seen, back at home base.

  I have to stop chasing this Paris Angela and reexamine everything I’ve already looked at and ruled out because I haven’t been honest with myself. My review of her apartment has been through a filter of distance—the Angela I assumed she was in Paris, the one who ran half marathons and charmed everyone. Other than that brief conversation with Jean-Luc—and let’s admit it, even then—I’ve resisted probing the ugly memories from our past, the darkness of certain deeds that shaped us as much as the moments when we bonded over an invented language. Any clues Angela would have left would be meant only for me, and our ghosts.

  “Mademoiselle, excusez-moi,” a man calls from behind. An officer in a dark uniform with POLICE stitched across his baseball-style cap waves me forward. Large yellow t
eeth contrast prim pink lips. I glance around me, but the crowd continues without pause. They are already certain he’s speaking to me.

  “Oui?”

  He replies in French, too formal and complex for me to grasp. He beckons me again. “You must be coming,” he adds in a thick accent.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You must coming,” he repeats, his voice dropping. He looks beyond me, lifting his head so that I can see his nose appears once broken, off balance in an unnatural way. A stiff patch reads POLICE NATIONALE and cups his right shoulder. “Now. I am police—we go now.”

  Fear spikes my heart rate. Did something happen? Was there a break in Angela’s case? Why would the police dispatch someone to pick me up at the Champs-Élysées (has he been driving around looking for me?) if there wasn’t something important? The man’s poker face should be on an ESPN live feed.

  “What happened? Did Valentin send you?” I cross the three feet that separates us just as the breeze picks up, carrying with it the rank smell of body odor. It is deep, stifling, like the man hasn’t bathed in days. Instinct clenches my belly and freezes my steps. The smell from the stairwell. I lift my eyes to his face, still partially covered by the wide brim of his policeman’s cap. This man was in the stairwell of Manu’s building.

  His lips twitch. “Yes. Valentin have message for you. Come.” A black car with tinted windows stops at the curb. Tourists crowding the sidewalk scatter before it, their selfies ruined. He clutches my elbow, directing me toward the open door. My mind races. I haven’t seen Valentin with this man, and I don’t recognize him from the station. Valentin has no way of contacting me without my phone, and I left too early this morning to buy one. Sending another officer is not such a stretch. But why would that officer take me away in an unmarked car with tinted windows?

  Numbness radiates from where the man grips my skin. We approach the door, and a pair of sneakers and a T-shirt are visible in the first footwell. The back seat flows into the front, no metal grid barring the way. The driver wears a baseball-style cap with the word POLICE, too, pulled down low, obscuring his face as he scans the crowd. It’s a regular sedan. But for the duct tape and zip ties that litter the cushions.

  I scream and shove the man away, then turn and tear through the crowd of tourists. Women cry out; my hands push through their photo op as I strain to hear footsteps behind me. I leap past a small hedge around a restaurant and run another twenty feet down the next street before I pause at a covered bus stop to suck air into my burning lungs. My hat is gone. From here everyone passing at the corner is visible—three taxis zip by; a stooped man with a rolling shopping basket waits at the crosswalk. Shaking spreads through my limbs, and my elbow throbs with the memory of the man touching me.

  Green light. The man with the shopping basket hobbles across the street as a black sedan glides into the adjacent intersection—hesitating, slowing, searching. Someone honks from behind, and the sedan speeds up and out of sight. I collapse onto the bus stop bench, into a bed of fabric scraps and newspapers. My breathing comes jagged and the rags sit upright, eyes wild until they land on me.

  “You okay?” the man asks in French, but I can’t speak. He repeats something, undeterred and alarmed. Comptez jusqu’à dix. Comptez jusqu’à dix. Count to ten.

  Comptez. One, two.

  That man came to abduct me. Three, four, five.

  Possibly to kill me. Six, seven, eight.

  He was in Manu’s building. Nine, ten.

  Which means he’s been following me.

  I fill my lungs with air, and a sob-hiccup escapes. A grimy hand touches me as calm settles over me like a blanket, shock spooling through my core.

  “You okay?”

  I nod. A yellow cab turns the corner, and I let fly my dad’s shrill whistle, the one that he taught me when we were thirteen and which I lorded over Angela because she never could do it. The taxi rolls to a stop beside us. I thank the bus stop man, and he repeats, “Comptez jusqu’à dix.”

  I climb into the back seat of the cab, the plastic partition and prominently displayed ID already a comforting sign that this driver is legit. We veer left toward the hill. With every black vehicle we pass, I slide farther down in the seat until only the wide, leafy trees lining the road and approaching clouds fill my vision.

  These last few days were driven by the assumption that Angela was hiding from someone. And that I should be, too. Knowing now for certain how true that is, the arresting fear in my chest diminishes with each kilometer we drive. While my hands coil into fists.

  Chapter 18

  Ready for your burial, Moon?

  My toes still poked through mounds of sand. The coolness of the lapping waves rushing my ankles was refreshing, although it made Angela’s job harder; each time she succeeded in covering my toes, water would rise and wash away her progress.

  We were ten years old, sprawled across the bumpy sand along the water of our inlet. The sun bore down harder than usual, but a breeze kept things bearable, dancing across the skin exposed by my one-piece swimsuit. Angela started pouring sand on me with her toes—finger toes, she called them. The better to grab you with. It turned into a game: I’d lie still while Angela covered me with as much sand as her finger-toes could grab in one footful. The sand kept spilling off, creating triangles along my body. Angela suggested she could use one hand and one foot to make it go faster, to build on the triangles, and I conceded.

  Clear blue reigned above us, with only one airplane toting a banner passing by in the ten minutes that followed. The sound of wind chimes carried from somewhere close. Sunshine bathed my face, a delicious contrast to the cool sand cascading down my legs. It was a relaxing summer day—until suddenly it wasn’t. Tiny stinging rocks woke me. They were attacking my cheeks, my eyes, my mouth. I tried to open my eyes, but the constant stream of sand made it impossible. I moved to shield my face from the sand, but my arms were pinned. Panicked, I screamed and kicked, fueled by sudden terror, and succeeded in rolling onto my stomach. I threw off a mountain of silt and a driftwood log. Angela stood over me with a soda can and plastic pail filled with sand. Horror drew her face long. “I’m so sorry, Moon. I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry,” she repeated, over and over again, gulping sobs stifling her words until she lay down beside me. I stayed on my hands and knees and threw up a mouthful of sand. Apart from the thousands of grains of beach stuck in my hair and my irritated eyes, I was okay. Okay but confused. Scared, when I remembered Angela had been angry with me that morning for playing with her doll, the designer one I loved. Her retribution, delivered. We ended our visit to the beach earlier than usual that day, but not before she swore up and down she would never do anything to hurt me. That I was her best friend and the most important person in the world to her. Even as our mother separated me from Angela for days afterward, until it was safe to play together again.

  Early morning turns into late afternoon with the ease of a sick day at home—agonizingly slow then quick, to where I look up and three hours have passed. The memory of body odor returns cyclically, every so often. Panic siphons the air from my lungs, and I replay the event from start to finish in my head: attempted kidnapping in broad daylight in the middle of the crowded Champs-Élysées; I escaped. Deep breath. Through the nose. Breathe.

  I sat in bed for a good hour when I got back, debating going to Valentin right then and there, imagining the hypothetical conversation. Miss Darby, are you sure? Miss Darby, what did he look like? Where were you coming from? What were you doing at Wood’s? Wrapping my head around all the different turns this conversation could take left me feeling as unglued as when I got in the cab. If the fake cop somehow actually does work for the police, I’ll have to bob and weave in the moment. But cowering in fear is not how the next three days go. They can’t.

  Someone has been following me. Someone is growing both impatient and bold.

  Shadows stretch across the hardwood floor and the paper I’ve organized into piles. I nod off twice before decidin
g on a cup of instant coffee I find in the kitchen. My bones ache from little to no sleep last night. Was that only last night?

  Think, Shayna. I’ve reviewed all the boxes of papers and knickknacks first opened with Seb. Where would Angela hide a clue? I climb onto her desk chair and peer down from above: nothing. I get down on my hands and knees to look beneath her bed (again), then her armoire and find a farm of dust bunnies. And . . . and remember something.

  Seb looked beneath here and added two pieces of paper he found to one of Angela’s folders—nothing interesting, grocery receipts, I think, but Seb didn’t want to throw anything away. I launch over to the desk, to a manila folder titled SORBONNE RECORDS in my sister’s slanted hand. My fingers shake as I riffle through the pile, passing over receipts for pasta and tomato sauce, then pausing on two receipts I skimmed my first day here. One is for a nightclub and the other a historical tour of something called bordels. The web browser on my laptop translates it as brothels. There’s no website for the company listed on the receipt, but user reviews in French say it’s great for native Parisians, and other stuff that doesn’t make sense with subpar translation engines.

  Holding up the receipt against the afternoon sunlight, an image ghosts through the paper. Excitement drains the moisture from my mouth as I realize I know these shapes. I flip it over. A sun and moon are drawn in pencil with a plus sign in between.

  Angela’s light cadence whispers in my head: Good day, Moon.

  No one else thought the nickname was anything but sweet, except for me. To me, it was a callout, salt in the wound, a reminder that everyone outside our family preferred her charismatic, sunny disposition. Disappointment, anger, and hurt all collide in a ball that lumps in my throat, then mingles with hope as I stare at the drawing. I found something no one else did. Angela must have left this for me. After staring at—savoring—the receipt a minute longer, I zip it away in the inner pocket of my bag.