The Missing Sister Read online

  I don’t have another option.

  A six-story yellow apartment building rises from the suburbs of Saint Denis, on the outskirts of Paris’s sports stadium. A trio of garbage cans lines the street, stuffed to the brim with plastic bags and cardboard. Something deep-fried wafts from a kitchen nearby, and saliva pools in my mouth. A deflated soccer ball lies in the gutter, covered in grime. I glance at Angela’s planner again.

  Nour. Apartment 23, Rue de Mignon, Saint Denis.

  White tile peeks through the building’s open doorway, the door handle dangling loose by a single screw. I hesitate, noting the empty street parking, make sure no one has followed me, then step inside. Plaster, metal, and concrete flooring decorate the scene. Eggshell paint adds to the vacuumed, prototypic atmosphere.

  French rap carries from farther within as I climb the stained, carpeted steps to the fifth floor. The darkness of the stairwell gives me pause on the landing, but I press on.

  “Who’s there?” a woman calls in French from behind a thick metal door with no peephole.

  “It’s Shayna. Angela’s sister.” Footsteps approach. The chain is lifted, and the dead bolt slides back. Frizzy black curls with pink tips emerge from the apartment, creating a pastel halo framing a round face. Slanted sunlight penetrates the gauzy curtain of a window behind, dilating my pupils from the dark hallway.

  “Nour?” My vision adjusts, and the young woman inhales a sharp breath.

  “Angèle.” She grabs me by the shoulders. “Holy fuck, you’re alive!” She yanks me into an embrace. Her sharp chin quivers against my collarbone. “Oh my God, I was so worried.”

  “No, I’m not . . . ,” I mumble. “I’m . . . Shayna, Angela’s twin.”

  The young woman’s grip lessens. She pulls back to examine me with wide brown eyes. Understanding melts the happiness from her face. “Merde.”

  A man steps out from the kitchen to give a low whistle. Is he Nour? The apartment is dim—a television shows a paused movie—but they could be cousins, for all their shared traits: wavy black hair, dark eyes, and lean builds. There’s a large mole on the man’s cheek, and, when he smiles, a front tooth is chipped like he once lost a fight. He says something in French that makes the woman shoot him a dagger glare.

  Please, God, let one of them be Nour.

  She rubs her eyes. Her accented English lingers between us, and I relax a little knowing we can communicate. Fuchsia hair dye contrasts and embellishes the brightness of an emerald stud piercing her left nostril. A spandex leotard dips low on her chest while pockets of skin at her hips peek from sagging jeans. Her bright-red lips pucker to the side. “You are the sister of Angela. Is that Angela’s . . . hoodie?”

  I smile. She knows my sister well enough to know her wardrobe and probably a few of her habits. Jackpot. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I only had an address.”

  We stand awkwardly, digesting my anticlimactic entrance.

  “Pas de problème, chérie.” The man steps forward. “I am Hugo, a friend of Nour.” He lifts his hand in hello. His head tilts to the side, appraising me with charcoal-rimmed eyes.

  Nour remains rooted to the spot. “How can I help you?” She crosses her arms beneath her chest, though her voice softens. “I imagine you’re looking for her.”

  “Actually, I’m . . .” Nour’s face drops, and I recall the feeling of expecting the earth to crack open and swallow you whole, of standing on the anxious precipice, waiting for the terrible blow. Not knowing whether Angela is alive. Valentin’s throaty voice edges forward from my memory: 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. A family member’s identification will push the American government to provide dental and medical records more quickly.

  I don’t blame Nour for holding out hope. Even as there’s no way I can let on the true levels of batshit crazy reality has become. Taking a cue from the police, until I’m certain Angela is dead or alive, I’ll have to maintain the status quo. Adopting a tense expression appropriate to discussing a missing sister, I resume. “I’m trying to learn more about her time here in Paris. Can you help me with that?”

  Nour stares at me, her brows stitched tight. Where seconds ago she exuded a fierce strength beyond her small frame, now she appears childlike, full of questions and also deep sadness. “What was your name again?”

  “Shayna.”

  She releases a breath. “Happy to help, Shayna. Anything to drink?”

  “A glass of water, please. Paris is hotter than I expected.”

  Away from the confined quarters of the city center, Nour’s studio apartment is spacious, if cluttered with yellow bags and clothing. Twice the size of Angela’s, the layout extends like a suite, with three massive windows overlooking the modest neighborhood below. A pair of boys throws a rugby ball in the street.

  “Please excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting . . . well, anyone apart from Hugo.” Nour grabs me a mini water bottle from the fridge and opens one herself. She leans against the counter and resumes her assessment of me in between swigs. “Has there been any progress on Angela’s case? She’s been missing since late June.”

  “Not much. Has she been talked about in the news?”

  “The media says she’s the only person still unaccounted for from the day of the shooting. We’ve all just been waiting and praying.” Nour hugs herself. Hugo wraps an arm around her.

  “Did you know Angela, too?”

  “No. Never met her.” He offers a tight-lipped smile.

  I take a sip of water. “I found your name, Nour, in Angela’s old agenda. I was wondering if you could tell me what her life was like the last few years. Did you spend a lot of time with her?”

  Nour hesitates before replying. She gazes at me. “C’est bizarre . . . The only way I know you’re not Angela is she would have tried to flirt with Hugo already.”

  Hugo scrunches his nose.

  She smiles. “Angela and I were in Imperial World Literature class together, my third year of college, her senior year. We did some group projects at a time when her French was not so good. We helped each other. Her patience is responsible for my level of English today.” Nour pauses. She struggles to say something, leaning against the counter that encircles the kitchen.

  “We hadn’t been close for a while, me and Angela. Life does that. Takes you to other things that seem important, instead of people you care for,” she whispers. “You really look so much alike.” She drops her head. Pink curls shudder, a neon crown.

  I don’t know what to say. What should I say? “We are . . . identical.” Stellar, Shayna. I crack my pinkie. “It seems like you two were very close. I missed so much of her life these last three years she was in Paris.”

  “Everything has been crazy. First the shooting, then Angela disappearing—two students died, did you know?”

  Some pocket of memory registers. “I think I read that. Did you know them?”

  She lifts her head, tears on her face. “Does it matter? This is a rarity here. This is not like in the United States, a school shooting every month. It is almost impossible to obtain a gun in France if you’re not military. You have to go on the European black market.”

  I open my mouth to defend my country, but the verity of her words, the anguish of her voice stops me. It’s true; I read about the students, then glossed over the shooting’s details that didn’t directly relate to Angela’s disappearance. Traumatic headlines don’t faze me like they used to. I don’t have enough bandwidth to care as much as I would like. Maybe that does make me callous. Shame coats me all over, and I examine the calendar on her wall to avoid meeting her gaze. Notes, arrows, and circled dates cover the page. Just like Angela’s.

  “You’re right,” I whisper.

  “She missed you. She talked about you all the time, about the missing sister from her life back home. Things you would have said and done. Locations she wished you were here to see. And now I
’m having the exact same conversation, only with her twin about her. Putain, c’est bizarre.” Nour steps back from the counter to lean against the sofa, where Hugo now sits.

  Did she tell you she abandoned me after our parents died?

  What did she tell you, exactly? That I never came to visit her?

  Conflicting emotions batter me on all sides as I think about the times I needed Angela while she was eating cheese in Paris, hanging out with Nour. Another shot of jealousy and frustration pokes at my insides.

  “What was her life like these last few months?” I try again. “It seems she was knee-deep in doctoral studies.”

  Nour wipes her lashes with orange nails. “Angela is a good friend, but she’s . . . how do you say? Ambitious? She knew what she wanted. We did not see each other so much over the last year. The last time we hung out was my fucking birthday last August. I only learned about her disappearance from friends.”

  A twinge of pride registers. My flighty sister, Angela, was focused. “I wonder if Seb knows any of them. Do you have their numbers? I’d love to speak to them.”

  Nour stops picking at a cuticle. “Who is Seb?”

  “Angela’s boyfriend. They were dating for a year before the shooting. Angela never told you about him?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I don’t think so. A year? My party was almost a year ago, but we haven’t really caught up on campus in ages. I’m in the master’s program for costume design.”

  “Okay. Well, what about those friends? Do you think I could ask them a few questions?”

  “Sorry, love. Most people at the Sorbonne are on summer holiday right now. People leave the city and go home to the countryside or holiday somewhere in Europe.”

  Must be nice. No wonder the police have made almost no progress in solving Angela’s case.

  “Do you have any idea who might want to hurt Angela?”

  Nour’s face hardens, but her reply is instant. “Manu. I don’t know if she’s capable of attacking Angela, or orchestrating anything against her, but she didn’t like her. They were friends at first, then they had some kind of conflict. She actually stole Angela’s bike six months ago.”

  “Did Angela report it?”

  Nour shakes her head. “Not that I know of. Manu kept harassing her in these ways. Angela would go to the toilets, and Manu would go into her purse and take her metro tickets. Pressure Angela to allow Manu to drive her home.”

  “How do you know all this if you didn’t see Angela over the last year?”

  Nour shrugs. “Everyone knew—other people saw it. I ran into Angela one time at the campus store, and she looked exhausted. I asked her what was wrong, and she nodded behind her. Manu was staring at us from a table.”

  I nod myself, imagining the scene. How difficult must it have been for Angela to navigate harassment in her second language? Someone should have helped her.

  Hugo begins to play with Nour’s hair, but she doesn’t react. She leans forward, as if to tell a secret. “Manu is also rumored to have connections to a few . . . how do you say . . . gangs? And she is Roma.”

  Hugo throws up his hands, speaking in French at a mile-a-minute pace, frowning at her words. Nour shouts him down, then points to me, and they both quiet.

  “Um, what is Roma? Italian?” I offer.

  “Gypsy.” Nour side-eyes Hugo, daring him to object, and he lifts his hands with a huff. “They move around a lot.”

  “Well, where is she now?”

  “No one has seen Manu since before the shooting.”

  “So she’s missing, too? Is there anyone else who could talk to me about Manu? Someone who knew both her and Angela, and who is not on holiday?”

  “You should go see Delphine Rousseau, Angela’s dissertation director. I think she’s teaching the summer school session. She would have more information about Angela’s studies and whether Manu is still enrolled at the Sorbonne or skipped out to Belgium.” Corkscrew curls tilt to the side, emphasizing the last possibility. “Manu’s full name is Emmanuelle Wood.”

  My mind is spinning. It’s not crazy Nour never heard of Seb if she and Angela didn’t see each other most of last year. Even if they were good friends in the two years prior. But that, coupled with learning more about this frenemy Angela had, is unnerving. What other variables to this equation am I missing? I thought Nour might shed more light on Paris Angela and my sister’s routines, but these insights only leave me anxious and feeling like I know even less than I did before. “Thanks. And thanks for the water.” I turn to leave when Nour moves to my side.

  “I wish I could show you around, but I’m under deadline with the Paris Opera this week. I hope you find what it is you’re looking for. Just be careful. France is not very friendly to foreigners at the moment. It’s actually giving us Muslims a break.” Her laugh stops short, relaxing into a smile. “Let me know if I can help more. Good luck, love.”

  Nour kisses me on both cheeks, and Hugo does the same. Despite the rough start to our introductions, I shut the door feeling a little less alone.

  Outside the police station, I pay my cab driver in a bleary-eyed trance, then step to the curb. Collecting my thoughts the best I can, I jog into the police station and sail through the metal detector to pause before the same receptionist from Sunday.

  “Inspector Valentin, please?” I ask in French.

  An annoyed sigh shakes the woman’s jowls as she looks up. A crossword puzzle on her cell phone is illuminated in her palm. Eyeing my frazzled expression, she turns to her computer and makes a few clicks. Thick, hair-sprayed curls protect her face like a helmet. “The inspector is out of the office.”

  Crap. “When will he return?”

  “No idea, miss. Do you want to leave a message for him? He can call you tomorrow.” She lifts a few notepads, moves a stack of papers.

  A cold chill snakes through my chest. Tomorrow. My flight home to San Diego leaves at nine tonight. And what have I accomplished? I kissed Angela’s boyfriend, ruining my relationship with my guide to this city. I met with Nour and Hugo and learned Angela might have a stalker. I think Angela is alive, but I signed away any suspicion that she may still be breathing somewhere, confirming her dead. Have I accomplished anything? More likely I’ve left things worse than when I arrived.

  That body in the morgue wearing Angela’s toe tag is not my sister.

  Whose sister is it?

  “You are American.” I jump at the slurred English hissed into my ear. “You should not be so proud to be an American.” A man with wiry, white-streaked hair, who’d been sleeping on one of the wall benches, teeters two inches from my face. Something brown stains his T-shirt, and he smells of whiskey. Sweat covers the deep wrinkles of his forehead.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He sneers. “Your country thinks it can do whatever it wants whenever it wants.” Angry English dissolves into angry French, alerting everyone else in the lobby that we are not friends, that I don’t know who the hell this person is or why he grabs me by the shoulders. “You are all damned! Americans, you are damned by God himself!”

  “Olivier, au secours! Monsieur, arrêtez!” The receptionist waves frantically for the security guard.

  A man launches toward us and rips the guy off me, wrestling him to the ground. Expletives in French howl from the drunk’s mouth as he struggles against the full nelson laid on him. Olivier, the security guard, handcuffs my assailant, then drags him away by the scruffy collar.

  I straighten my shirt and massage my skin where I couldn’t shake him loose. The receptionist asks me whether I’m okay. I nod. She smiles reassuringly, then turns back to her crossword game. I peer around the lobby. Everyone resumes their conversations, my brush with violence forgotten. Did that just happen?

  Lunatics: a normal part of police life.

  How quickly are other events, cases, and missing persons forgotten? I hate to think what will happen to Angela’s case in a week, or a month from now. Will her file gather dust in Valentin’s office until
he tosses it somewhere in the basement? The idea of actually leaving, knowing my sister’s body isn’t on a metal tray, but lying—dead or alive—somewhere else, causes me to shudder. Our secret language on the whiteboard is a warning.

  I can’t fly out tonight.

  I thank the receptionist, then duck off to the side. My cell phone’s search browser shows a flight departing Paris on Sunday, landing me at San Diego International late Sunday night, with time zone differences. Just in time for the first day of UCSD’s med school orientation. Moving forward, I have to buckle down. Cut out all distractions to find Angela. No more Seb. No more fake-trusting nature.

  My sister is alive. The idea is enough to make me light-headed when my arm starts to pulse; a bruise takes shape where the drunk attacked me. Remaining in Paris will require more than simply intentional choices and being alert. I need someone who can walk me through this city and all of its hidden pitfalls and interactions in another language. I still need a guide.

  I scroll through my phone to this morning’s call log, then press down.

  “Allo?”

  Heavy breathing carries through the receiver, and I have to wonder whether looping in another Frenchman is wise. Whether there’s any wisdom to staying here. Or whether I’m about to ask another witness to document this week’s slow implosion of my life.

  Chapter 10

  from: Angela Darby

  to: “Darby, Shayna”

  date: Jun 23, 2015 3:04 a.m.

  subject: (no subject)

  Dear Shayna,

  Tell me it’s not true. Tell me this is a terrible nightmare. Tell me Mom and Dad are still breathing.

  I’ve gone through eight tissue boxes. Three rolls of toilet paper when I ran out of tissue. I don’t know where the tears keep coming from.

  No words can express the depth of the black hole in my stomach, eating a pit where my organs once were. I picture it like something out of Star Trek, consuming all of my happiness, my spirit, my will to do anything, and leaving only blackness behind. It won’t stop. When I close my eyes, I see Mom’s long dark hair and Dad’s thinning, russet tufts falling into the abyss. So I try not to close my eyes. I try to memorize photos of them, replay the sounds of their voices in my head and Dad’s shrill finger whistle—but the second I close my eyes, the images of them falling return. I didn’t even see them, as you did. When you identified the bodies.