The Missing Sister Read online

  He steps behind a desk to sit in a leather swivel armchair, surveying the folders and envelopes that cover the surface. “Sit down, please.”

  I move a series of clipped papers from a chair to the floor and do as I’m told.

  “Firstly, I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Darby. I cannot imagine the pain you must be experiencing in this moment.” The words are well rehearsed, probably used far too often, but I struggle for footing all the same. Relief at knowing Angela is alive battles with the intense grief stomping my heart, shaking me certain my sister is dead.

  Seb’s words reverberate in my head: The note could have been there then.

  A cardboard box with no lid sits on a filing cart next to Valentin’s desk. Scrawled across the side are my sister’s name and a word I recognize from clicking through articles on Le Monde’s website: Preuves. Evidence. The blue sleeve of Angela’s favorite college sweatshirt drapes over the edge, and the sight of it ignites a round of goose bumps on my skin. She wore that everywhere junior year.

  “Would you like a tissue? Miss Darby?”

  A tear splashes the pocket of my shorts. “Shayna. What happened, exactly? I know you explained everything over the phone, but I want to hear it again to make sure I understand.”

  The desk phone rings, interrupting my agony. The mundane, everyday sound feels like an affront—the world continuing to go about its business. Valentin silences the noise, but a red, insistent light continues to flash. “Of course. I understand it is confusing. Information has come in slowly and bit by bit.”

  He clasps his hands together. “Here is what we know: Angela was on the Sorbonne campus June 29. She entered the library at 1:05 p.m., according to surveillance cameras. A shooter entered the campus at 2:13 p.m., opening fire on the international relations hall, the foreign language hall, and the library. Conflicting witness statements insist Angela ran into the courtyard with the other students—out of view of security cameras. Others suggest Angela was taken from the library, kidnapped.”

  “By whom? The shooter killed himself, right?”

  He nods. “Yes. We do not believe the shooter was involved. Ten days later, a body was recovered from the Seine, with a bullet wound to the head; we have not yet confirmed this was the cause of death. As the body was submerged in water for almost that length of time, the only identifying factor that police could use without proper medical records was the tattoo dressing her ankle, based on Sebastien Bronn’s declaration. Rumors have leaked to the media that an American has been missing since the shooting, and we are trying to contain this information before releasing a statement. Identifying your sister’s remains will not take long,” he adds. “Until when do you plan to stay?”

  I stare at him until my eyes burn and I’m forced to blink. “I’m leaving Tuesday. Angela didn’t have any tattoos when I last saw her. How am I supposed to ID her?”

  Valentin purses his lips. “Many times, family members recognize things they don’t remember until they are faced with their loved one. Perhaps that will be the case for you tomorrow.”

  “Wait. Can’t we go now? I thought I was coming to see you, then we would go straight to the morgue.” I crack my pinkie knuckle, a burst of anxiety resurfacing the bad habit.

  Valentin’s eyebrows draw up and together. “The morgue is only open Monday through Friday for nonemergencies. If I may ask, why schedule your visit for so short a duration?”

  “Shit.”

  “Miss Darby?”

  Why did I assume we would go immediately? The last few days, I’ve been distracted trying to wrap my head around Angela’s death. In contrast, when my parents died, I asked so many questions that I was given a copy of their incident file to ensure I had the same information the police had. Granted, their case wasn’t shrouded in ambiguity—it was a car crash, plain and simple. Except it wasn’t. Not to me, anyway.

  “Miss Darby?”

  I shake my head, snapping back to the present. “I wanted to stay longer. My trip is brief because classes start next week and I have tons of work to do before then . . .” My voice trails off as I hear my own idiocy. Your sister is dead. Valentin doesn’t blink, but I get the sense he’s mentally recording everything I say, each sniff I make.

  “All right, so what can I do today? Have there been signs posted—Last seen with—or some tip line set up? Have the police cross-referenced phone numbers from her cell phone with new acquaintances? I could go through her old emails and try to find any red flags. I can be extremely meticulous, and I’d like to help—”

  Valentin lifts a hand before I finish speaking. “There is nothing for you to do, Miss Darby. We are pursuing this investigation in every way possible. Even if your sister were alive, I would not ask you to hold a press conference and plead for information regarding her whereabouts. That is not the French way. You will have to content yourself with waiting and avoiding strangers while the police continue their efforts.”

  A shiver climbs my spine. All the better. Public speaking is Angela’s forte; I can’t imagine a million people watching my panic attack.

  Valentin reaches across a stack of folders and hands me a business card. He clears his throat. “You have my office phone and now my mobile phone. Please call if you have any questions before tomorrow morning.”

  I stare at his card a moment before registering that he thinks the conversation is over. “But what about her killer?” I can’t leave without something—anything that says progress is being made, that I’m not in this all alone. Leaning forward, I grip the edge of his desk. “Don’t you have any suspects? What are you doing to find this guy?”

  Valentin sits back in his chair, thumbs twiddling in infuriating nonchalance. “It might be a woman, Shayna. We’re pursuing several leads.”

  I have half a mind to scream at him, to slam my fist against the desk like the fucking Hulk, but I measure my tone. “Like what? What if someone tries to contact me since I’m Angela’s sister? Shouldn’t I know whom to avoid? If I were a killer and I saw me and thought my job wasn’t done, I would—” But the words finish the task won’t go past my teeth; I’m fully realizing for the first time, in Angela’s city, wearing a mirror of her face, how close I am to that reality. The only worst-case scenario left: me going missing, too.

  His thumbs reverse direction. “We have been carefully monitoring developments in an adjacent investigation, believing it might be linked to your sister’s death. I cannot release specific information at this time. Have you been following the news?”

  “No, I’ve been busy mourning,” I snap.

  “French news. Le Monde, Le Figaro. There have been multiple murders recently, all bearing similar marks to those found on your sister. Clément Gress?”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Gress was the first of these. He was found in a dumpster behind a frozen foods store. He had been dead for hours, yet missing for days.”

  “And how is he similar to Angela?”

  He shakes his head. “He is not, overtly. None of them are. Their commonalities are restricted to the cranial bullet wound and one or more tattoos of some kind. Therein lies the problem.”

  “So you think someone took Angela from campus, during the shooting, during all the chaos. And that person may have killed already before that?”

  “Possibly. We don’t know whether the abductor is a series murderer or whether they acted uniquely. We are still determining what happened in the ten days between Angela’s disappearance and the body’s discovery in the river. That is why we need to confirm the identity of the corpse tomorrow, to search for additional commonalities with the others. A family member’s identification will push the American government to provide dental and medical records more quickly.”

  I nod, but my mind locks on two words, barely hearing the rest. My heart pounds against the thin cotton of my tank top. “A series murderer. Like . . . a serial killer? You think Angela was murdered by a serial killer?”

  Bright-green eyes fix on mine as
Valentin inhales a minty breath. “Good day, Miss Darby.”

  He escorts me back down the hall, into the lobby. In a trance, I thank him. The woman’s pink knitting now reaches her lap, her needles continuing to clickclickclick. Several individuals seated along the benches lift their heads as I pass, their gazes following me through the one-way glass. When the sunlight hits my skin, I don dark glasses on autopilot and retrieve an elastic from my bag to wrap my short hair in a messy bun. A trio of men on the sidewalk stops their conversation to watch, and my body stiffens instinctively. I take off down the steps, around the corner, at a speed I hope is assertive and not intriguing, not even caring when my hair tumbles to my shoulders once more.

  Valentin’s words ring in my head. Series murderer. If someone out there is aiming to finish with me what they started with Angela—to finish the task—it’s going to take a lot more than a change of hairstyle to stop them.

  Chapter 4

  from: Angela Darby

  to: “Darby, Shayna”

  date: Jan 12, 2015 7:32 a.m.

  subject: Greetings from France (Adventures Abroad)

  Dearest Shayna—

  Holy stinky cheese, Batman, I’m in PARIS! Yaaaassss! This first week has been filled with pastries, poor directions, an abundance of body language (*wink wink*), and my French roommate seems pretty cool en plus. There’s this crazy-hot guy downstairs, and we haven’t talked yet, but I think he’s in my International Conflict class. I’m hoping he needs a study buddy this semester. Naw’m sayin’?

  Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself: I miss you so much! Seriously, Shay, I’m sorry for the tiff we had at New Year’s. I know you were part annoyed at Teddy’s flirting with me (he’s not worth your time, honestly), and part worried that I was leaving, but I feel really, really good about this move. And it’s only for a semester. Here, in the Sorbonne’s massive international student residence hall, in the middle of Paris, with random French Army guards who walk around with automatic weapons (seriously. Democratic socialism is intense), I feel completely safe. Ever since the first day of orientation at UCSD, when we visited the Education Abroad booth, I’ve had visions of crêpes raining powdered sugar, and it’s so lovely being here now.

  Being so far from you does feel weird, though. You never said it, but I’m well aware it’s the first time you and I have been more than one hundred miles apart. I hope you’ll come visit. Paris would freak over our American, sassy-pants twinning. (I’ll have the pants ready; you bring the sass.) Single births surround me, and while life is incredible here, it would be great to experience it with you.

  Also, it’s cold. Like stick-your-tongue-to-a-flagpole cold. So when you visit, ask Mom to pack more long johns, please. A dozen. And something with extra warmth, like a fur coat (the non-animal-harming kind)?

  Moving away for a semester isn’t going to change the fact that you are my sister, my twin, and we are connected by something even your science can’t explain. All the calculations in the world can’t define why I know exactly when you’re sad or feeling awkward or embarrassed. Even without being side by side, you know when I’m out of sorts. Remember the night the end of freshman year when you couldn’t sleep, and I called you the next day to tell you about my breakup with Mike? No one can explain that, not even you.

  I don’t know when I’m going to email this off just yet, because I know how upset you were when I left. Maybe give it a few days? It is true I’ve been in my own little world the last three years with Alpha Delta Beta while you’ve been knee-deep in premed, but I think we’ve also had the chance to grow up and find our own identities (she said, with a furtive glance. “Right?”). If you ever want me to come home, just say the word. I mean it.

  This email account will be used to document my adventures abroad. Reply here with any tips you have for me in Paris from that big ole brain of yours. Snail mail or messages in Coke cans plucked from the Atlantic are also cool. I love you. Please don’t be mad anymore.

  Bisous (“kisses” in French),

  Angela

  *Edit: I’m sending this to you. Twin for the win.*

  Chapter 5

  Just before I opened the email from Seb declaring my sister was missing, my hands had been clutching the silver frame of my smartphone case. I was laughing. Doubled over, wishing for a glass of red wine. A state grant I applied for was set to be announced that week, and I was checking my inbox every hour; any and all money was needed to pay for the next four years of medical school, even though half the tuition was covered thanks to my parents’ estate.

  The smart tweed dress I had chosen for UC San Diego’s medical school social hour was itching the tops of my knees, but I didn’t care. Everyone was friendly, excited to begin this next chapter in our journey toward becoming doctors, and I was tossing educated quips right and left. Rare, like AB negative, am I right? A circle had formed around me—young men and women, and Tiberius, the token salt-and-pepper student. I felt alive, awake where I had been asleep for the last three years mourning the loss of my parents. I felt like Angela.

  Social hour turned into two with me leading the charge, Diet Coke in hand. I suggested Abuela’s Tavern down the block. The Sea Breeze Lounge was closing soon, and we needed a place to keep the party going. Some genius wanted to walk along the water instead, but I vetoed the idea; the trauma of a childhood jellyfish sting had never really faded, and neither had my repulsion for the shoreline—I could never separate my earlier happy memories of the beach from the slick taste of fear that coated my mouth after that day. When June humidity blanketed La Jolla Cove, as it did then, translucent mushroom tops could be seen floating on the choppy waves, the jellies’ migratory bloom in full swing.

  Kelsey, from Minnesota, volunteered that she’d recently moved to Pacific Beach, and wasn’t Garnet Avenue crazy congested? The three native San Diegans (myself, Clarisse, and Tiberius) corrected her in unison: Gar-net! A peal of laughter bubbled from my throat and made me forget for a second that life was hard.

  Then I dragged a finger down the screen of my smartphone to refresh my inbox.

  Angela’s bathroom mirror reflects dark shadows ringing my eyes. I’d give all my state grant money back to return to that moment at the Sea Breeze, refreshing incessantly, before Seb’s email arrived. To the bliss of not knowing my sister might be gone forever.

  I step out from the bathroom and find Seb crawling under the bed. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He inches backward like a garbage truck, slow going, then gestures beneath the bed with a hooked thumb. Gelled black hair sticks out in a dozen directions, dust bunnies hugging the tips. “I found some boxes behind the cookware container. Can you reach them?”

  Seb arrived at seven o’clock on the dot, ready to try and piece together Angela’s disappearance. After leaving the police station, craning behind the entire drive back for a glimpse of anyone following me, I returned to the apartment and began sorting through her wardrobe. Then I gave up; I couldn’t box up my sister. For the last two hours, we’ve been reading old essays and leafing through books, separating them into piles of Maybe, Irrelevant, and Potential Clues. Hunching over anything Seb thinks might lead us to the root of Angela’s demise.

  Logic and sanity insist I believe my sister dead until I visit the morgue. If it is true she’s still breathing, I’ll have different decisions to make—there’s no way I can leave this city, abandon her in this country, on this continent, if she’s in so much danger that she’s gone into hiding.

  From where I sit, the whiteboard’s writing is messy. It was written hurriedly, slanting up the side of the board as though Angela ran out of room. A word I hadn’t noticed before remains beneath the partially erased numbers: Code. Nausea serrates my stomach. Did Angela simply use our language as an example of a code, or a demonstration to someone? The edge of another word is smeared—ée. Was her cry for help nothing more than a practice session to keep up her skills?

  Shit shit sh
it. I keep my head down and focus on slowing my breathing. My cheeks flush in the cool interior of the apartment. Yellow sunbeams heat my bare calves through the open window; the sun is finally setting at nine o’clock. The longest day of my life.

  “Shayna?” Seb speaks loudly, like he’s repeating himself. “The boxes?”

  I slide underneath the bed, feeling queasy. Why am I consenting to this exercise in prolonging the pain, the debilitating squeak of hope that’s pierced the emotional armor I donned when I stepped off the plane? Out of courtesy? Politeness? That doesn’t sound like me. Grabbing the closest storage box, I inch it backward, corner by corner. It clears a path through discarded socks.

  Sebastien wipes the top as I sit back on my heels. “I wonder how I missed this last week.” He smooths back his hair, dislodging a few dust bunnies. With careful movements, he untucks each flap until the box’s contents are revealed.

  This man was so intimate with my sister he had a key or knew where she hid her spare.

  “Did you really look through all of Angela’s personal stuff?” My tone lands flat, accusatory, maybe more in line with how I should be interacting in the shadow of the whiteboard message. Although I was aiming for conversational, I also don’t care. I don’t know this guy, regardless of how well Angela did. In some twisted, petty part of my brain, I am mad he was here by himself, in this sacred space.

  In the filing box beside me, a layer of tampons covers a photo of Angela’s smiling face, pressed to the cheek of a model, from the looks of her companion. He’s tan, with the right amount of stubble and deep, indented dimples. A Taser peeks out from beneath the picture, surprising me. Had she felt threatened even before the shooting at the Sorbonne?

  Seb looks at me, an innocent pinch in his forehead. “Angela passed away. I am trying to follow her last steps and find out why she died, who took her. If I must dig in old crates to determine who, I will.”