The Missing Sister Read online

  “Not quick enough,” I reply. Chang nods like she already knows all the details I can’t say in this setting. “I’m so sorry, Chang. About everything. Thank you. I . . . I had to find my sister.” Aloud, the words sound hollow; they don’t dull the fact that helping us almost cost this woman her life.

  She smiles. “I understand. I’m glad the pair of you is okay. She is okay, isn’t she?”

  I nod, not quite trusting the police aren’t listening to my answer.

  “What about your flight?” Chang asks. “Did you miss it already?”

  “By about twelve hours. Not sure when I’m going home now, but I’m hopeful in the next week. I . . . lost my passport, so I’ll need the embassy to replace it before I can leave. The police are still reviewing the surveillance and checking to make sure my story holds up. They think Seb kidnapped Angela, took her underground, then went back above to purchase cigarettes from the tabac. The time frame is narrow, but it points to holes in his original alibi. I’m hoping for news tomorrow.”

  Chang takes my hand in hers. “That’s a good plan. Once I learned you were here, I had to come and verify you were in one piece. You can take care of yourself now, Shayna—it’s okay to. You know that, right?”

  A small smile spreads across my chapped lips. “Yes, I know now.”

  “Good girl. Well, we certainly got the adrenaline rush I wanted, didn’t we?” Chang smirks. She gives my hand a kiss. “Let’s get going. No sense in staying close to the beehive.”

  “I’m . . . I can’t go anywhere, Chang.”

  “Of course you can. I posted your bail.”

  “You posted fifteen thousand euros?”

  Chang reaches through the bars of my cell and slides a hand under my chin. “You’ll pay me back when you become a big-shot doctor. Or judge. Or deejay.”

  Tears stream down my face as the guard approaches from behind her. He unlocks my holding cell, and Chang wraps me in her arms.

  I sign several forms with carbon copies attached, each one stating I’m in charge of all my faculties and will return when summoned. My translator, Jean-Luc, elucidates each clause, careful to explain the sentences I stumble over; he sails through the pages with all the levity he showed when I first found him at the café beside the Sorbonne.

  After I was fingerprinted, both he and Valentin spoke to me together in my cell, and Jean-Luc stayed close by to write out his reports. The United Nations had been working with the police to curb trafficking, but Jean-Luc’s assignment to monitor me was strictly need to know. As Valentin explained, he began reexamining Seb as a suspect, as more than the grieving boyfriend, when the morgue director saw us leave together on Monday, despite Valentin warning me to avoid strangers. Valentin had learned of Seb’s dishonorable discharge, but it was only after he dug further and discovered Baptiste’s death and Seb’s personal interest in the catacombs that he became concerned. The note that Valentin slipped under Angela’s door was meant to encourage me to stay put while the police tracked down Seb and brought him in for questioning.

  Seb’s pattern of tattooing his victims, of linking them forever to himself, was likely a form of possession, when everyone he’d loved had been taken from him. The Gemini symbol, chosen as his crest, would have alluded to his belief that twins were the key to scientific advancement. The act of tattooing his victims paid homage to his hero, Molinare.

  Valentin pauses a phone call as Chang and I pass his glass-walled office. The measured nod he gives me is softened with a smile before he barks into the receiver in English, “I don’t care if she is in a meeting, get me the American ambassador now!”

  Steps from the main glass doors, fear and anticipation mingle in my chest, so close to freedom and all that it symbolizes—a new start despite recent weeks, months, years of self-destructive action. A new chapter, with Angela once I land stateside, on a more even plane and celebrating our duality, ignoring society’s fascination with singular labels—the emotive twin, the angry twin. I’ve been waiting so long for someone to say it’s okay to move forward—waiting to tell Angela about our parents’ deaths in person and for her to forgive me, always seeking external validation, instead of forgiving myself—that I missed the option. As Chang said, I can take care of myself—it’s okay to. Setting healthy boundaries and expectations is okay.

  I slide inside the back seat of a black car commissioned by Chang, then watch as representatives of the press trail our path until we turn a corner out of sight. The route to the hotel room Chang booked is short, but it is filled with the only peace I’ve known since landing in Paris. Clear blue fills the sky when I exit the car. I stare straight up until my eyes burn. The crash of waves resonates in my eardrums, and this time, for the first time in years, the fear that always spooled through my core at the memory is silent.

  Shouts in French rise from the hotel lobby as reporters stream out: Miss Darby! Le Monde News would like a quote from you! Would you care to comment? What can you tell the world? Frenzied voices blur the rest, but I already know what I’ll reply. When I raise my face to the slanted afternoon light and the rows of media eager for a glimpse of my unwashed hair and streaked cheeks, my comment is simple: “Twin for the win.”

  Acknowledgments

  I distinctly recall when I first saw mixed-race couples and their children presented on camera, in television commercials. I was in college, in the mid-2000s. I’d long ago accepted that standardized testing would never allow me to accurately describe my ethnicity by checking more than one bubble on the Scantron, so I was at once shocked and thrilled. Pretty great to be writing about them today.

  Endless thanks to my literary agent, Jill Marr, who plucked me from a Twitter pitch party to get things started. I could not have journeyed this dazzling road without you, truly. Your spark, insight, and good humor have all been more than I hoped for. You are the very best.

  Thank you to Megha Parekh, who believed in this book from the get-go and not only understood it but valued its unique set of characters. I am so appreciative of you as a guide and editor, to have your brains and vision in my corner; you knew exactly what my book needed to level up. To Caitlin Alexander, who lit my world on fire with her enviable judgment, thank you for reading and rereading, and rereading, still. I could not have asked for a better developmental editor to cut out subplots and make these sisters shine. To Sarah Shaw and the entire crew at Thomas & Mercer, thank you for making my dream a reality.

  Special gratitude to Arielle Max Drisko, who convinced me that writing a full-length novel was possible—a thought I carried with me for two more years before I actually attempted the feat (despite many journals and rambling diary entries from childhood). Additional callouts must be made to writer and editor Nicole Tone, for taking my story and nudging it along when my manuscript was still in its early form.

  To my friends in France who puzzled at me when I first said I was writing a book (“—de . . . quoi?”) and yet let me mine their histories a bit more, thank you for smiling and serving more Calvados. With express recognition to the city of Paris, the Paris catacombs, and the six million-plus souls that reside belowground, thank you for serving as inspiration for the setting of this story, and giving me some of the best experiences of my life. A bientôt, j’espère!

  This book couldn’t have been written without the expertise of Dr. Erin Healy, my genius friend and generous resource, even as I asked question after question regarding things clearly not scientifically possible. I appreciate you. Any error in this book regarding the practice of medicine, the subject of science as a whole or otherwise, is my fault alone (or that of my short-lived biology major).

  To my writing friends and critique partners who read this story in its first, intermediate, and final iterations—Heather Lettere, Elaine Roth, Raimey Gallant, and Cathy Holst—thank you for the quick reads and gut checks. In unique ways, you each kept me going with your camaraderie, talent, and incisive commentary. Thank you a thousand times over.

  To my in-laws, your support of t
his whole writing thing, since day one, has been striking and thoughtful. I completely lucked out with you all.

  To my family, spanning the length of California, who have always been supportive, if not entirely sure what to make of the creative itch I’ve had since middle school, thank you for being part of my story, for forming the first pages of my life with your love, good food, and group photos (turned photo collages, turned never-ending photo albums). Big families are the best.

  To my thoughtful, artistic, and brilliant friends all over who asked for updates, my parents, and, in particular, my mother, who always offers to read, my wonderful brothers, Thomas, Andrew, and Ben, and my incredible sisters who inspire me every day, Kimberly and Liana, I am so grateful for each of you.

  Finally, to Kevin. Thank you for allowing me to turn a kitchen table into a writing office, for the home-cooked meals, for your unfailing belief in me and this book, for being my first reader and favorite dance partner. I promise, one day I’ll learn how to follow. #PC

  About the Author

  Photo © 2019 Jana Foo Photography

  Originally from Sacramento, Elle Marr explored the urban wilderness of Southern California before spending three wine-and-cheese-filled years in France. There she earned a master’s degree from the Sorbonne University in Paris. Now she lives and writes outside Portland, Oregon, with her husband and one very demanding feline. When she’s not busy writing her next novel, she’s most likely thinking about it. Connect with her online at www.ellemarr.com, or on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.