The Missing Sister Page 18

  “When did you find this?” I gasp. “I mean, what time do you think you left the apartment? Was it daylight?”

  “Maybe a few hours after you left? Around noon.”

  “Was there anything unusual about the hallway? Any other papers? Anyone out front?” I want to press her for more, for specifics, for the exact temperature outdoors and the color of the sky, whether there was the sound of footsteps as she opened her door or whether a woman of my build and face was lurking out front. God, I want to ask her a thousand and one questions because . . . Angela must have left that note under Nour’s mat. There’s no other way. My sister is alive. She followed me to Nour’s and saw me go inside.

  A dam of tears, joy, and confusion threatens to overwhelm my voice, so I cough. Hard. Harder, trying to loosen the lump. I don’t dare look Nour in the face until I feel able to ignore the figurative fireworks exploding in my mind, the sparklers flaring in my heart. Angela.

  “It’s going to be okay, Shayna. I didn’t see anything else in the hall, but it wouldn’t surprise me if you’re forgetting stuff lately. You’re going to be fine, love.” Nour rubs my shoulders, then leads me back outside to the square teeming with streetlamps and people, dozens of doors, and hundreds of hiding spots. A labyrinth of possibilities, each of which could house my sister.

  She’s alive.

  When Nour kisses each of my cheeks goodbye, I respond on autopilot, barely feeling her touch. My skin is numb, pure electricity, vibrating hope.

  The front entry of Angela’s building slams shut with a bang, contrasting the muted click I created when I tiptoed in thirty seconds earlier. I withdraw Angela’s key from my pocket, suddenly eager to get inside her apartment, safely behind her fireproof metal door. Footsteps clamber up the stairs in time with my attempts at unlocking the door in the dark.

  “Shayna?” Jean-Luc pauses at the landing, breathless. Shadows from the skylight above cast an angry glow, draping his high cheekbones at menacing angles. “Hey. Listen, I’m sorry I walked out earlier. I freaked.” He drags a hand through his hair. It falls in thick curtains beside his ears.

  So much has happened since this morning, when he ran out from Manu’s apartment building and then I followed. More than twelve hours ago. Before I started embodying Angela’s warning to me completely.

  “No worries. I looked around a little more without you. Thanks for coming there.” I jam the key in the dark lock of the door again, but the metal grooves don’t align.

  “So what’s the plan for tomorrow? I came by three times today, but you weren’t here. Did you get a new cell?”

  I’ve literally spun the key in all possible directions with no dice. Swear words torpedo from my mouth.

  “Shayna? Hello?” Jean-Luc hits the wall with his palm, and a hallway lamp flickers to life. I insert the key again. The door clicks open.

  “Thanks.”

  “Listen, I said I was sorry about this morning. Can I go back to translating fascinating items like lunch menus for you?” The levity in his voice matches the easy smile he wears. He takes a step toward me. “How does that sound?”

  I would love having a local with me, a partner on this sojourn into the bizarre and unbelievable. I thought that was Jean-Luc, but he’s gotten too close. Learned too much about me and is frankly too much of a distraction. I see it now, after spending the day apart. He would only ask questions and balk at the direction I’m taking, because how can’t he? He doesn’t know the real reason for all my traipsing around. He can’t. He has to go.

  “Shayna, don’t push me away because of this morning, please.” He stops before me, within the grasp of a strong hug. The distance of the lean of a kiss. He smells like fruity shampoo, the faint scent of strawberry.

  I steel myself for the millionth time this evening, it feels like. Harden myself against the creeping softness that funneled through my limbs at the sound of his voice. “I’m not pushing you away, Jean-Luc. I don’t have some desire to isolate myself, contrary to what you may think. You may feel some insurmountable guilt from your past, but not me. I just don’t need your help anymore.”

  Jean-Luc lurches backward like I swiped at his chin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that I’m not drowning in guilt and acting out some textbook reaction. I know I’m not responsible for any of the tragedies that have touched my life, and I’m just trying to get by here. Whereas you breathe every day as a self-appointed surrogate for the life your friend Benoît forfeited. I don’t need your help anymore, and it’s not rooted in anything else. That’s all.” My voice tapers to a wavering fraction of what I began with, reduced a little more with each horrible word that tumbles from my lips.

  Jean-Luc shakes his head slowly, disbelieving. “Wow. Is that what you really think?”

  I step inside the apartment and partly close the door. I’m unwilling to cede the inches of progress I made today, not for anyone. A small voice inside me notes the familiarity in pushing people away. The voice questions what might happen if I didn’t. Jean-Luc stares at me from the hall. The wide-eyed shock he wears fades to resignation. His shoulders slump in green-and-black plaid.

  “Good night, Jean-Luc. Thanks again.” Before I can second-guess myself, I close the door on his defeated expression. From the other side, I rest my forehead against the cool metal until his shuffling footsteps dissolve into the carpeted landing above.

  Chapter 22

  Day 6, Friday

  Sunshine warms my cheeks, rousing me from a sticky sleep. I tossed and turned until three in the morning, when I finally passed out, but not before I replayed every moment of last night in my head. Did I imagine everything? Was the sip of absinthe that potent? To tell myself it made the images I saw at the speakeasy exaggerated wasn’t logical. After all, the ticket receipt I have is real, and so are all my memories before returning to the bar and afterward at the opera.

  Angela is alive.

  A sob of relief bursts from my throat, and I flip over and scream into a pillow until my throat closes. The sound turns to crying, and my lungs ache from breathing into cloth. My flight takes off Sunday night, in two days, at 10:00 p.m. I can’t leave without finding her. Bodies entwined and writhing was absolutely a part of my night, along with the disturbing offer of a stranger. I can help. And I doubt he meant sexually, despite our location at the time.

  If I’m being objective, the question of whether I simply forgot writing some note that I dropped at Nour’s is legitimate. Grief is a bizarre beast that can make us see and do things that don’t make sense. Memory adjusts and omits with the slightest nudge, let alone under circumstances like mine. But did I write myself a to-do list, then drop it outside her door? The answer has to be no. Otherwise, I’m forced to question everything I’ve done here.

  If Angela was following me on Tuesday, she may have been following me this whole week. Something must make her hesitate to approach me outright. Even though I’m in her personal space, her apartment, her neighborhood. Something, or someone, won’t let her.

  Ducking beneath the tiny faucet in her bathroom, I mentally review my progress. Late last night, a poke under the armoire for other possible clues came up empty. A Google search verified some of Nour’s and Seb’s tidbits about the catacombs. Most disturbingly, the Nazis did use the network of tunnels during their occupation of Paris. One named Josef Molinare tortured concentration camp prisoners—he was obsessed with twins. Molinare gave them gifts of blankets and extra food during the day, but they always disappeared at night.

  I shiver as I exit the shower, memories of the encyclopedia webpage feeling too personal. Once I’m dressed, I continue sifting through the piles, reexamining everything. At least a dozen notecards were thrown in her trash—

  The trash.

  I dive to my knees and clutch the round waste bin to my chest. I pull out the notecards and tissues I’ve added, eyeing each one. Seb didn’t think we should throw anything away, not yet; I was the one to dismiss and disregard these items
, so intent on doing a surface scan, not probing further.

  A brochure lies squished at the bottom. A giant cross and a stone facade grace the cover, along with a fearsome-looking gargoyle. Les cryptes de l’église Notre Dame. No ticket or receipt is squished with it to let me know how recent this excursion is, but it’s a church—a clear link to the clue Divine. And better than divining tissues.

  Turning the brochure over, searching for another drawing, I almost miss it—a pattern. Of dots, much in the way Angela and I used to send messages in Coke cans from the beach.

  On napkins, we wrote out what we imagined were mysterious images to the untrained eye—dot drawings, unknowingly imitating pointillism—attempting to re-create Magic Eye images that could only be seen for what they are by holding them far away from your face and crossing your eyes. The dots on the back of this brochure string together a rectangular shape, with an oval top and a tab: a soda can.

  Happiness clamps down on my chest.

  Opening my laptop beside Angela’s, I search through my inbox for the list of the embassy’s emergency-only phone numbers. If ever there was a time to reach for help, it’s now. I use the Skype account I last called Angela with years ago, and a man answers after two cheery rings. “American Embassy Emergencies Abroad, how can I help you?” he says in perfect English.

  A sigh chokes in my mouth, hearing the warm accent of home. “Yes, I’m wondering if the embassy can help reschedule nonrefundable flights.”

  When I rebooked my flight to San Diego on Tuesday, American Airlines made it clear they would happily assist with booking new flights at the low rate of three times what I initially paid, and they would not credit me with anything. If I rebook my flight again, from this Sunday to—a week from now? A month?—I could lose that entire sum. I explain the sad context of my visit to the embassy employee, but he offers no alternatives.

  “Unfortunately, the embassy can help book a flight, but we can’t negotiate terms with privately owned companies. If you do reschedule, you’ll probably lose the amount you paid for the nonrefundable flight. Sorry. Have you already been contacted by embassy personnel while in Paris?”

  “Yeah. I’ve had a guide, kind of, since I arrived. Jean-Luc something or other.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t see anyone named Jean-Luc in the citizen assistance department.”

  “I think he’s in the repatriation group.”

  “Our French interns are usually in another sector. I’m trying to load his information to see if he’s working today. He might be able to help you navigate French airline websites, if you want to explore your options.”

  “No, that’s fine. Thanks, anyway.” I hang up, feeling the weight of my ticking clock heavier than before. There are no outs here. I didn’t expect them to pull diplomatic privileges for me, but I had to ask. Throwing on one of Angela’s sundresses, I tuck some extra tissues into my messenger bag.

  On the street, people migrate toward the metro, window-shop the boutiques, or set up artwork on easels. As I step from the tall entryway, an eerie feeling of déjà vu comes over me. Montmartre looks much like it did six days ago when I arrived. A cab slows to a stop beside me as my corner’s homeless man asks for spare change. I offer him what euro coins I have in my pocket. He accepts without speaking, eyes planted on the ground.

  The light, sugary scent of fresh crêpes wafts from a street vendor’s stall. Two children drag their parents into line, leaning at earnest forty-five-degree angles. All around me people go about their normal Friday, unaware of my compacted timeline. There’s no line in front of the mobile phone store this morning, and I head toward the fold-up sign on the sidewalk.

  My sister is here. Somewhere. I know it as well as I know she’s always enjoyed messing with me, staying hidden ten minutes too long just for the fun of it. There is no way she’s playing some game now.

  “Miss Darby?”

  I whirl to find Valentin ten feet off, standing beside a bench covered in magazines. His nose is red, as though he’s been out in the sun since yesterday. Abundant eyebrows are askew like he ran a hand down his face or fell asleep on the metro.

  “Inspector.” Valentin’s track record has not been to bring good news.

  “May we go somewhere quiet? Perhaps your . . . Angela’s building? You left the crime scene after I said to wait. I desire to speak with you.”

  Now it’s my turn to hesitate, knowing how the apartment looks. How I am trying to find my supposedly dead sister alive. How I have packed next to none of her belongings with two days left. “You know, actually, I’m air-drying all my underwear right now. Not really a good time.”

  He frowns, creasing the bridge of skin above his nose. A pair of rowdy high school–aged boys passes by, and he takes a step closer toward me. “Please, Miss Darby. Here will do.”

  I sigh, taking a seat on the bench.

  Valentin pushes aside a magazine featuring a hand-drawn cartoon before he sits. “Miss Darby, I imagine your trip has not been an easy one.”

  The urge to snap at him—You think?—balloons in me, but then the classical music of the brothel echoes in my eardrums. For a second, the idea of telling Valentin everything about my would-be kidnapping, of blurting out each of the supposed clues and messages from Angela, makes so much sense that the scowl wipes clean from my face. My lips quiver, fighting the words.

  Valentin sees my struggle and leans in. “Shayna, I am here to help you. And help Angela in any way I might.”

  An-jel-ah. Hearing her name in his accent yanks me back to reality. Telling him anything would only add surveillance to my path, or worse, well-meaning house arrest. “Thank you, Inspector. I know you are.”

  He straightens. “I come with an update. We found the cadaver in Emmanuelle Wood’s apartment. As you said, it was beneath the kitchen sink and placed there recently; the police are examining it now. We are trying to get in touch with her twin for Emmanuelle’s whereabouts. Did Angela engage with the Woods to your knowledge? Did the three of them interact—perhaps bond together as twins?”

  My mouth moves slowly, forming the words: Manu is a twin? Does that mean she was more, or less, enthralled with my sister? My stomach tenses at this revelation, confusion and concern braiding my insides.

  Valentin watches me, no doubt cataloging my expression. “You did not know?”

  “No,” I mumble. “I told you I hadn’t spoken to Angela in ages when I arrived here. Are the Woods suspects now?”

  He blinks, giving away nothing. “If this situation is linked to your sister’s case, I will keep you informed.”

  “You do think it’s odd a body was found in Manu’s apartment, right? Is it Manu? Did the serial killer put it there? Does this guy even exist? I haven’t heard anything about it on the news.” As soon as I finish speaking, the number three pops into my head—the body count I’ve personally seen since arriving. More than most people do in a lifetime. Even before Valentin presses his lips together, I have my answer.

  “Miss Darby, do you recall what I shared about your sister’s investigation your first day here?”

  I scan the pudgy cumulus clouds overhead. “Nothing?”

  “There are multiple murders I suspect may be linked to Angela’s death. Three bodies were discovered before your arrival, bearing similar marks to those present on Angela’s body. Clément Gress was the first body found, in the garbage dumpster behind a frozen foods store.”

  “I do remember that. What kind of marks?”

  “Restraints or some kind of binding material. Tattoos. And a head wound inflicted by a firearm.”

  Exactly as the officers confirmed at the crime scene I followed the police cars to. Ligature marks. Tattoos. Shot to the head. “Why are you telling me this? Why now?”

  “Officially, we’re not confirming anything. Unofficially, the city has not seen this level of repeat murders in many years. The person or persons responsible would be calculating and patient individuals
. Binding their victims for such a period of time, and then dispatching them by a gunshot to the skull, suggests these murders are impersonal. Clean. Driven by a higher need. The perpetrators appear, at the moment, to be abducting men and women arbitrarily; aside from the mode of execution, we have not yet determined any commonalities that apply to all the victims. Angela’s gunshot wound was the only one to be administered postmortem. Victims are of varying ages, men and women, of various occupations—two homeless—but, on a rudimentary scale, we can confirm each victim bears little known ties to family, and at least one tattoo. With these facts in mind, I would advise staying in tonight. For your safety.”

  I sit dumbfounded. Finally, with only two nights left to me here, he offers all the details. “So the body below the sink is one of the serial killer’s victims? She has the same markings?”

  “No. The body bears the restraint marks, as I’m sure you saw. But that is where the similarities end. The cause of death was a gunshot to the chest.”

  “But aren’t the restraint marks significant? Where did you find the rest of the bodies? Were they also in the Seine? Maybe the killer is trying to throw you off by choosing overtly different victims. They must be linked in some substantial way. Right?” Thinking on Angela’s body double—“Were you able to determine Angela’s cause of death?”

  Valentin stares out at the passing traffic. “Our forensic sciences team should turn in a final report on Monday. I would caution against too much optimism, however. Sometimes the elements remove all final clues. Bonne journée, Miss Darby.”

  “Wait, I need more information here. You can’t expect me to—” I’m still reeling from this deluge of information when something about his words stops me: the elements—nature—as the most powerful of all, a belief Angela always championed.