The Missing Sister Read online

  This is not a tight space, not the family chest Angela locked me in when we were kids. But not knowing what lies ahead arouses my anxiety. I go to crack my pinkie knuckle, and it won’t give.

  Mathieu peers at the red drapes. Painted numbers are next to each golden rod suspending the velvet material, and he gestures to me—whichever one I’d like. Confusion adds to my buzz. The security I understand; the hostess’s third degree makes sense for an illicit bar. These curtains, the empty foyer and vestibule, the lone couple making out, his hand under her shirt, are all strange. Where are we? Where are the patrons, eager to be seen and posted on social media, like in the Gaslamp speakeasy?

  I choose curtain number two, and we pass into a tight space with a view that stops me in my tracks. A glass partition presents a room with a bed. Folded chairs are propped against the walls of our viewing space, and Mathieu unfolds two for us. The glass is streak-free; the smell of window cleaner lingers, and something else. Antibacterial. Beyond the bed, a velvet drape of fabric hangs at the back, probably leading to one of those doors along the adjacent hallway. I turn to ask Mathieu what we’re doing here, but he is already seated, leaning forward, waiting. The curtain sways.

  A woman enters, clad in nothing more than a slip. Nothing fancy, with barely any lace to the hem. But the silk clings to her slender frame, moves with her hips, becoming provocative and more than just a precursor to bedtime. She approaches the glass, and I’m not sure if it’s a two-way pane or one-way from the manner she blows a kiss to the corner neither Mathieu nor I occupy. She’s young. Far younger than I would expect someone to be at a peep show, with heavy makeup and rouge, like she’s prepared for a theatrical performance. Is this burlesque?

  My heart races, titillated by the sheer taboo of being here. Never in a million years would I have bet Angela set foot in a place like this. She believed ardently in love stories and shunned anything that suggested the contrary in romance and sexuality. Anything that suggested sex was a base act instead of a form of ethereal lovemaking.

  The young woman massages her breasts for her audience. Pale skin glows in the red light, her blonde hair showing platinum from root to tip. The slip she wears appears nude so that she could already be naked were it not for the fabric gathering under her palms. The curtain sways again, and Boy Three enters the scene. I gasp, but Mathieu doesn’t move beside me. Boy Three, naked from the waist up, only wearing the jeans I just saw him in, approaches her from behind, and if she hears him, she doesn’t let on. He grabs her by the waist, then climbs his hands to her chest, but she doesn’t flinch, instead allowing her glossed lips to fall open as though she enjoys his touch. As though this is a performance she’s acted multiple times. Boy Three slides his hands to between her thighs, lifting the slip to show us her red cotton panties as his fingers search for skin. Here, she purses her lips, then turns to him, lifting her slip over her head and allowing it to fall to the hardwood floor. He leads her to the bed, undoes his pants, then climbs on top of her. She lets her face fall toward us, then licks her lips in a wide arc.

  My skin turns cold. The warmth of the absinthe dissipates, replaced by nausea and a creeping understanding. Sickness builds from my abdomen and climbs into my rib cage. The third stop. This is no longer a tour. And not just a peep show. I am in a real-life brothel.

  Mathieu’s breathing intensifies beside me, and I’m unable to look at him. He clears his throat. “I am so glad you returned. I thought you might not, after your last visit.”

  “What?”

  He tears his gaze from the couple and withdraws a small tube from his pocket. He offers me a tiny round pill. When I shake my head, he takes it himself. “I am sorry about last time, Angèle. I do not remember all, but the scratch you gave . . . endured one week.”

  My chest tightens. “Angela?”

  Mathieu groans, watching something the couple is doing. He rubs his neck, licks his lips, then turns to me again. “That hurt, Angèle. I do not remember when you left, but it is rude to leave without saying au revoir. Come closer. Stay this time.”

  He grabs hold of my wrist and yanks, and I fall against him. “Angèle,” he breathes. A lecherous gleam clouds black eyes. His sweaty palm climbs my thigh. “I was so angry when you left.”

  “Let go!” I push his hand off and struggle to stand, but he wraps both arms around me.

  “Angèle,” he says again, louder. His grip tightens. “Arrêtes, Angèle! You did not go to the police, did you? Did you?”

  I wrench out of his grasp and bolt from the room. People extend their half-full glasses of liquor like barriers to the exit, and I dodge left then right. The deep noise I couldn’t place when we entered registers as intense moaning, thrumming beneath the ache of bass strings. The hostess yelps when I barrel into her in the foyer.

  Pushing past her and her questions, I don’t stop until I’m back at the main street, glitter and sequins reminding me the night is just getting started. A cab stops a few feet down from me, and I cut in front of a pair of girls, then slam the door shut. It takes another minute before I can muster speaking a second language.

  I thought I was out searching for my sister and only I could decipher the clues to her whereabouts. That I owed this search to her. What I’ve learned so far is that she’s not the person I grew up with.

  Academic Angela. Reclusive Angela. Sexually deviant Angela.

  The lights of Paris blur together at the speed of my cab as I try to recall any mention of Mathieu in Angela’s files. Bruises begin to form on my upper arms. Mathieu, slightly intoxicated, not exerting his full strength, was stronger than he appeared.

  Now, certain that my sister was here before, I’m not at all sure she left in one piece.

  Chapter 21

  Snaking through the city side roads forces me to steep in the images I just saw. The questions they raised. The words spoken. What did that man say beside the do-it-yourself bar? Old boyfriend. Your best friend. I can help.

  Angela went to that place, maybe alone. What was she looking for? Could she have been approached by the same thug for hire? A thought burrows into me: What if Angela hired that man or some other man I saw slouched along the walls—uninterested in the curtained rooms—to intimidate someone? To go after Manu? My hand grips the armrest on the taxi door as the idea takes root. What if Angela did have something to do with Manu’s disappearance—or her death?

  Spotlights illuminate the green arc of the Paris Opera’s dome against faint stars dotting the sky, a megawatt OPEN sign to music lovers. Groups of people attending tonight’s performance linger at the box office in sequins and coattails. Wide, flat steps lead to several windows for ticketing while pigeons hang on virtually every inch of the plaza at midnight.

  I pay the cab driver and get out, expecting my knees to buckle, but they hold fast. The air is cool with the sun long gone, sloughing off the grimy feeling that’s encased me since I ran away, providing the energy to finish out tonight’s itinerary. With each step forward, my body falls into a rhythm on autopilot. Pigeons peer up at me, then flutter aside at the last second, the parting of the gray sea. A white-and-black one stops sprinting away to peer at me.

  I want to go home. Back to San Diego, where I was devastated but things made sense.

  Inside the square box office window, a young woman with an emerald nose ring picks at a fingernail. A hijab patterned with skulls drapes her head down to her chest.

  “Nour?”

  Vanity bulbs that frame the window highlight her beaming smile. The tension in my shoulders releases seeing her familiar face. Maybe that’s residual shock.

  “Shayna? What are you doing here, love?”

  “Hey. Any chance opera tours are still going?”

  Nour tilts her head, her pink lipstick pressing to the side. “Done for hours. But I can give you the VIP tour.” She slips me a stub that says Gratuit. Free. “Meet me inside.”

  The lobby remains crowded, patrons discussing in groups or taking photos. People mingle along a large
reception hall leading into the main theater. A thick, polished railing winds along an ornate staircase covered in rich carpeting and golden rods that restrain the fabric from bunching, while crystals forming a chandelier overhead chime with the gust of air I bring in. Nour skips down the steps from the main level to kiss me hello on both cheeks. Her hijab comes loose, but she pins it back with a practiced motion.

  “What do you want to see? I have a small break right now before we close up and can show you around.” She smiles and reminds me how easy it felt in her apartment. “There’s also a set of costumes from the Metropolitan Opera here on loan, if you like that sort of thing.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you could tell me about someone who came to the opera recently. Is that possible?”

  Nour squints until her eyes are all mascara. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s someone who may be related to Angela’s disappearance. He was found dead, and I overheard the police say they think he came to the opera the night before he died. Do you have access to video surveillance or anything from Friday, July 13?”

  A woman passes by carrying an identical copy of the yellow OPÉRA DE PARIS shopping bag I saw at the crime scene.

  Nour laughs, a husky sound that contrasts with her petite frame. Her hands shove deep into the pantsuit jumper she wears, but she doesn’t teeter in her four-inch heels. “I don’t. I’m just the costume designer, filling in for someone on holiday. Wish I could help.”

  I try to remember why I thought this was a good idea. What I came to do, exactly. “Well, I think they said his last name was Leroux. Could we at least see in ticket records if he came here with someone? Is there someone I could ask?”

  Nour’s amused expression turns tense. Her gaze shifts past me then back toward the main hall of patrons. “I’m sorry, Shayna. The police were already here this evening, so I doubt anyone will show you anything without a . . . what is the word? Certificate? Warrant? I could tell you anything you’d like about the last month’s designs.”

  “Do you have any idea what the police asked for?”

  She sighs. I’m grasping at straws and possibly pushing Nour too far, but I don’t really see another choice. The coincidence of the yellow bag obligates me to ask, to beg.

  She fingers the edge of the headscarf’s fabric, rolling it between thumb and acrylic-tipped forefinger. “Sorry, love. I wasn’t even allowed in the room. They went through the ticket office, and I was asked to step outside. All opera traffic was shut down for a good fifteen minutes.”

  The tiny flame of hope snuffs out in my chest. Too much of my search has been contingent upon what-ifs. What if Nour saw something, saw someone? It was a fool’s hope, anyway, to ask Nour to risk her job integrity and dig into opera records. After Jean-Luc’s reaction to me leading him into something similar, I’m lucky Nour hasn’t slowly backed away. I shouldn’t be wasting time on random hypotheticals with three days left before I go home, but desperation is creeping up like the flu. A shudder traces my neck, and Nour sees. The cream skulls of her hijab twist against light-green fabric.

  “Are you finding your way around the city okay? How has it been? I hope you’ve at least been able to enjoy—” She pauses, catching herself. “To see a few things.”

  I rub my arms, recalling the warmth of the brothel. “Yeah, discovering a lot. My phone got stolen, though. A pack of roaming kids grabbed it.”

  “Seriously? That’s terrible,” she huffs. “They’re everywhere lately. Probably because school is out.”

  I nod, taking a second to admire her English.

  Nour sniffs. “You should be careful walking around. Those children sneak through crowds and pick the pockets of tourists or French people who look lost.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be wary of them from now on. Thanks.”

  Nour takes me into the lobby and points out a few highlights—the chandelier installed in 1769 as part of the opera’s centennial celebration, the woven drapes commissioned by one of the King Louises, and the room down the hall to the left that used to be a dressing room and is supposedly still haunted. I listen as best I can, but my thoughts skitter back to her previous words. Nour’s warning against a band of (thieving) kids recalls the American woman with the Las Vegas hat and her suspicion of those children. Although both women are right to be on guard, I can’t help wondering if Valentin brings some kind of bias, too. My Google search turned up one result related to missing + Emmanuelle Wood from a local news outlet, the one I’m guessing Jean-Luc saw on television. What if the police are doing a shoddy job of investigating Manu’s disappearance, simply because she’s Roma? If they’re not giving this investigation their full efforts, Valentin’s suggestion that Angela may be implicated in Manu’s disappearance takes on a darker weight. Would the police allow Angela to be named as complicit, simply because she isn’t a native French person? How deep does this social disdain for the other go?

  “And that’s basically it. Our tour is finished. Everywhere else is forbidden to the public,” Nour adds. “You don’t want to get lost in the maze of a basement we have.” She cocks an expertly threaded eyebrow.

  I smile. “Probably not.”

  “Any other questions for me?” Nour places both hands on her hips. She’s spent her entire break with me already, but I can’t leave yet. Not without something of value.

  I inhale a sharp breath. “What do you know about brothels?”

  Nour laughs, then stops short, seeing my face. Her cheeks blush a dark red. “Prostitution is the oldest profession known to man?”

  “What’s its history in Paris?” Why would Angela send me to a brothel?

  Nour eyes me hard, examining my face, probably absorbing just how unlike my sister I am. “There hasn’t been much activity since the Second World War,” she begins, cautiously. “The Nazis were big clients during the Occupation, but the administration afterward considered the prostitutes traitors. No one thought to interview the women and get their knowledge of their clients.”

  I nod, remembering the platinum sheen of that young woman’s hair before Boy Three entered the room. “I’ll bet they have stories to tell today, too.”

  Nour shakes her head. “Brothels were outlawed decades ago. Now prostitution is decriminalized and the customers are fined, but there are no houses left. Why do you ask?”

  I stare at her, debating my reply. She matches my gaze with increasing worry the longer I don’t. “I think I saw something about them in Angela’s research. Just . . . trying to connect some dots.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” she says, brightening. “The catacombs were Angela’s doctoral subject, right? They used to link every major door of vice in the city at one point. The black market was conducted underground for a long time, and brothels were a part of that—some scheme to allow husbands to sneak away from their wives.” Nour rolls her eyes toward the gilded ceiling.

  My breath comes shallow as images of the last few days, the last few hours, return. The round metal manhole of the brothel entrance.

  “Remember Hugo?” Nour continues. “He’s a total history fiend. If you have any other questions about Paris, you should ask him. Plus, his schedule is less crazy than mine. Launching this production of La Bohème is such a time suck.” She offers a crooked smile.

  The hurricane of thoughts in my head pauses at her suggestion. Another guide? The memory of my last two and their issues stops me from automatically accepting. Following someone else around with so little time left in Paris sounds as terrible as showing up on Nour’s doorstep unannounced. No, that’s another chance I can’t take. Jean-Luc’s quiet guidance came with restrictions. So will Hugo’s.

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll have time. I’m leaving Sunday night.”

  She shrugs, her hands back in her pockets. “Well, if you change your mind, he’s usually at the same spot on Fridays. He deejays from eight to eleven, before the main act at— Oh! I almost forgot.” She disappears inside the box office. A few seconds later she returns, rummaging in he
r purse. She withdraws a paper flyer, then scrawls something across the back. “Et voilà. Hugo’s number and your note.”

  I pause, accepting the square. “My note?”

  Nour cocks her head to the side. “It’s yours, isn’t it? On the back. Your do-tos? To-dos. You know what I mean.”

  I flip the sheet over to examine a list of handwritten items:

  Land in Paris

  Go see Nour

  Go clubbing

  Go home to San Diego

  “Thanks, but this isn’t mine.”

  Her skin creases between her eyes. “It was outside my door after you left my apartment. I went to get groceries, and it was partially under my doormat. If not yours, whose?”

  I struggle to think back to Tuesday. So much has happened in the last three days, a mad-dash recap of scenes would be helpful, like when sitcoms offer their viewers a visual summary after a long hiatus. As is, I remember leaving her apartment, then sprinting to the police station. “I don’t know, I—” And then I see it. In the lower-left-hand corner of the flyer, in our secret twin language, the word help is penciled in at a slant, uneven, like Angela wrote while resting the page on her pants leg or the wall of a building.

  Nour taps my arm. Her rounded eyes narrow. “Shayna, you okay? You look really pale.” I know her hand is on my skin, but it’s like she’s touching someone else. I can’t breathe. I did not write and lose a note to self. I went to the police station, then to the Sorbonne, then to Montmartre and searched Angela’s apartment, without ever grabbing a flyer or leaflet from one of the many bus stations rife with them. The whole morning is a blur because that day I had decided to stay longer in Paris, but it’s not possible I wrote an itemized list in an unconscious burst of thought.