The Missing Sister Page 9

  Mom and Dad are gone.

  I’m so angry at myself for leaving, for being here and not spending the last few months of their lives with them. All because I felt lost at home. Confused. Scared at the quarter-life crisis bearing down on me. We are orphans. My heart physically aches at the thought of you alone in our parents’ home, to the point where I looked at the medications I’m taking to see if they created palpitations.

  Do you remember when I locked you in the hope chest in Mom’s closet? We were six. You made me so mad because you wouldn’t let me in to play with her shoes, though there was more than enough room, so I locked you in. Mom and Dad were having dinner with Aunt Meredith and Aunt Judy downstairs—Aunt Meredith had just broken up with another boyfriend—and they didn’t hear you screaming. I said I didn’t hear you, either, and I didn’t really—it was mostly stifled. But I felt it. I felt it in the way my own stomach seized and my heart almost tore through my ribs. I broke into a sweat all over and thought I was going to puke. I know it felt longer to you, but I lifted the latch after maybe a minute.

  Your panic, your fear, your terror were all mine in that moment, which is why it hurts so badly now. We carry more than our own pain—we shoulder the other’s buried, center-of-gravity suffering. As my sister, my identical twin, our connection spans distance and time. Even now, my stomach knots at three in the morning, because on the other side of the world it is six in the evening and you are wide-awake and grieving. It’s why I’ve decided to muffle this ache here in Paris. I’m not coming home. I can’t.

  You have always been the stronger of us. I doubt I would last in the same room with you, with so much agony in one space, one chest, one breaking heart. Your courage differentiates us, whether I want to admit it or not. Going from place to place trying to ignore my issues, avoid them, always searching for something more, has gotten me little headway until now. I’m constantly in self-preservation mode, ready to fly away at the drop of a dime, while you are steadfast. But I’m different here. It feels different this time. Going home would destroy that on so many levels.

  It is a hot poker shoved into my eye, the thought of leaving you to manage the grisly details of their service alone, and you don’t have to. Let Aunt Judy and Aunt Meredith handle most of the details. We’re twenty-one years old. No one should have to lose her parents like this, both at the same time, right after college finishes. This is bullshit.

  You should not have to deal with this. I should not have to deal with this. So I’m not going to. I’m sorry. Please understand. I know you won’t, though, and that’s okay.

  I am so sorry.

  I love you.

  TFTW

  Angela

  Chapter 11

  A breeze slides along my bare skin and momentarily clears the air. Then the cigarette smoke snaking from the trio of fourteen-year-olds beside me resumes permeating my T-shirt, my hair, my shorts, my skin. Barf. An aggressive red palm has been preventing me from entering the crosswalk for, I swear, five minutes—all the more frustrating when I’ve finally found my embassy liaison. Watching him across the street as he runs his hand through thick blond hair makes me feel like a voyeur. In a burst of paranoia, I glance around to see whether someone is watching me.

  The café Jean-Luc suggested would stand out anywhere else. But, situated next to the Sorbonne, Café des Étudiants was only one of a dozen with a “colorful canopy and chairs and tables out front. You can’t miss it.” Seems I strive to prove people wrong wherever I go, because I looped the block twice.

  As I finally make it across the street and sit down in a steel bistro chair, Jean-Luc finishes an espresso. In his green skinny jeans and purple T-shirt, he looks strikingly casual for a workday.

  “Mademoiselle, bonjour.” A portly man with dusky skin and more hair on his jaw than his head greets me with an uninterested smile. “Vous désirez?”

  I point to Jean-Luc’s tiny cup, then spread my hands. “Like that but bigger, please.”

  “Un café allongé, s’il vous plaît,” Jean-Luc translates with a crooked grin that reaches his ears. The waiter returns with my coffee, and we both lean in over our drinks. The familiar scent of roasted beans is a small comfort in an otherwise foreign environment; I allow myself a moment to breathe deep with eyes closed, let the clicking of heels along the sidewalk and the acceleration of car engines in the street fully swell in my ears. An infant cries somewhere around the corner. When I look up, Jean-Luc is staring at me.

  “Miss Darby. What can I do for you?”

  “Shayna.” He’s four, maybe five years older than me. I place my cup on the table and smooth back a flyaway hair. “And I’m in need of a guide around the city through this Sunday. I’m not sure what your week is like, but I can ask someone else at the embassy if you’re busy.”

  Jean-Luc’s dark caterpillar eyebrows lift. He rests knobby elbows on the table. “Sunday? I thought you were leaving tonight.”

  “No one knows the circumstances of my sister’s death, and I have to learn more. I need help retracing her steps. I’m happy to pay you.”

  Jean-Luc waves a hand. “Of course not. Helping you is part of my job. But don’t you think the police have it handled? I’m not sure attempting to double their work is how you should spend your days here in . . .” His voice trails off at my stony expression. “Okay. If you’re set on this, the embassy wants to help. Just let me know what you need.”

  “Thanks.”

  The waiter drops the check, and Jean-Luc says something in French to him. Jean-Luc nods a chin in my direction. “Anything to go? Straight coffee grinds to sniff later?”

  I laugh in spite of myself, in spite of everything. “I guess I was really excited about that café allongé thing.”

  He smiles, then pays in cash.

  Jean-Luc’s knowledge of the Sorbonne cuts my search among its seven dispersed campuses in half. It would have taken me hours to determine Delphine Rousseau’s office is on the central campus, across the river on the Left Bank. We walk the four blocks to the Sorbonne, the oldest and most revered university in France. Divining Angela’s research myself is leading nowhere—assuming that was her intention when she wrote her blog post to me: divine research, or guess/discover/analyze her studies here. Hopefully, her dissertation director is clued in to Angela the Academic.

  From outside, the university appears like many buildings in Paris: severe, regal, probably levying skyrocket rent for the interior apartments. Its architecture could be from the 1800s or earlier (dates were always Angela’s forte), with high windows over ornate sills and carved stone shaped as drooping fabric, a frieze above each panel of glass. The perimeter of buildings spans an area of several blocks, staking its claim on the sidewalk real estate. From where we stand, a broad iron gate is the only way in.

  Across the threshold, we head for a brick structure with sculpted vines curving along a rigid archway. Modern glass doors contrast the deep-set, chiseled words above—SCIENCES HUMAINES ET SOCIALES. In the lobby, locked cases display grades from the most recent semester alongside a large directory listing rooms. We climb to the second floor, ignoring the curious stares of the afternoon custodial staff, and arrive at the office marked BUREAU D’AMÉNAGEMENT—the urban planning office. A man with a towel approaches us and asks a question.

  “He wants to see a student ID,” Jean-Luc translates, “and says we can’t be here without one.”

  When Jean-Luc explains we’re not students, the man raises his voice—an angry bark—and he holds out a hooked thumb. He motions for us to leave—“Allez!”

  On the first floor below, people look up from their books or phones. Jean-Luc replies in a low tone as a woman marches over to us from the stairwell.

  “What is the issue? The exchange program office is downstairs.” She glares at us. Graying brown hair kinks into a natural sphere and is the only indication of her age. Red-framed glasses drape from a chain around her neck and contrast with the black silk blouse she wears. A white coffee mug trembles in her
hand. I nod at Jean-Luc. If he’s here, he can take point.

  “Bonjour, madame.” Jean-Luc says something, then mentions Delphine Rousseau.

  “That’s me.” She fumbles putting glasses to her face. Slanted eyes widen as she takes me in. “Oh merde, Angela.” She jerks backward, and coffee splashes the wall.

  “No, I’m Shayna—Angela’s sister?”

  She clutches her chest. “Goodness. I had no idea Angela had a twin. Hello . . . Shayna.”

  My heart deadens, just an ounce, hearing Delphine’s response. Past tense. The phrasing I’ll never get used to. “Would you be willing to speak to us? I’d like to learn more about my sister’s academics.”

  Delphine unlocks the door of a small office. She says something to the janitor that appeases the angry expression on his face. He mumbles something else, then wipes up the dripping coffee.

  “Let’s step inside.” Delphine leads us into a stunted room, dominated by a window the length of the wall. A modest metal desk is covered in stacks of papers, accordion-style folders, foam stress balls, and framed photos. Lush greenery of the courtyard below and a bakery beyond the campus perimeter are visible from our location on the second floor. Students lounge at the base of a stone stage connected to a building, some reading books and most engrossed in their phones. Delphine hangs a leather satchel on one of the brass hooks lining the wall. She sits down in an ergonomically correct mesh chair, then folds her hands on the desk.

  “I must apologize for Gérard. He thought that you were reporters.”

  “The shooting was three weeks ago. I would think the reporters would be on to other events by now.” I sit opposite Delphine in a cushioned folding chair.

  Delphine exchanges a look with Jean-Luc, beside me. Nour’s scolding voice returns to mind. This is not like in the United States, a school shooting every month.

  “What can I do for you two? I’m very sorry Angela remains missing.” She allows her sight line to fall to the stress balls, as though giving me the space to fall apart or collect myself. (As if I had the time to do either.)

  “Thank you. I’ve been reading Angela’s dissertation notes and was hoping you could provide more insight. How did she come to the catacombs as her subject? Did you see her the day she disappeared?”

  Delphine nods. “As I told the police, Angela first came to me a year ago. She read an article I wrote on the Roman catacombs and their significance to the urban development of the gladiator culture. She wanted to do the same research for Paris, from an outsider’s perspective.” A Parisian accent barely rounds her r’s, and instead she sounds borderline English, her t’s pronounced with clarity. “Angela’s vanishing is a tragedy.”

  I suppress a shiver. Vanishing—as in gone completely. Forever? “Can you tell me where she was in her research when she disappeared?” Jean-Luc is motionless in the corner of my eye.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Delphine begins. “But I do think there is a correlation between her studies and . . . Perhaps if she were less ambitious in her work, Angela would still be here.”

  Her words fall heavy in the otherwise silent room. When I inhale it feels unpracticed, unusual, like I haven’t taken a full breath since entering the building. “What do you mean?”

  Delphine rounds the desk to sit on its edge. Her arms hug her small frame while long legs extend for balance. “Let me preface this by saying my words are rank speculation. And I hope what I am about to say is not too disturbing.”

  The hair on my neck bristles. “Please.”

  Delphine clasps her hands together. “We still do not know who is responsible for Angela’s disappearance, nor how the shooting is related, if at all, yes? We only know that the shooter was a young man. Disgruntled and dissatisfied with the world. He was a student here, so he knew summer school classes would be in session that day. He targeted anyone associated with the departments where he felt mistreated. He did not plan this with anyone who was a student or a member of our faculty and said so in the note he left in his apartment. Shame that he killed himself when the police arrived.”

  “It is.”

  “I’ve been teaching doctoral students for a while. Twenty years at the Sorbonne’s division of Urban Planning and Social Sciences. I have never seen a student come to this program and excel so quickly as Angela did. Her work was excellent, and her French was okay, but she was—what’s the word?—eye-catching from the start.

  “As a foreign student, it was even more impressive.” She shakes her head. “It’s very American to come in and dominate a room—you all are quite loud, you know—and I think that earned Angela a few enemies. She didn’t simply dominate with the volume of her voice but also the content of her work.”

  Every muscle in my body stiffens in anticipation of Delphine’s next words. I hesitate to interrupt, but I have to know. “Would someone want to harm her? A classmate?”

  Her features crinkle. “The students here are quite competitive. After Angela obtained her internship, she was quieter, less present at events, and I’m not sure if that changed things.”

  “Less present? When was that? Could you explain, please?”

  Delphine casts about for the proper words. “Do you speak French?”

  “Not well. But Jean-Luc does.” I turn to my companion and wave him into the ring.

  He slides forward to the edge of his armchair. “Oui, Madame Rousseau.”

  They launch into conversation at a speed too fast for me to comprehend. As Jean-Luc asks a question and Delphine elaborates, gratitude mingles with a sense of practicality. I needed someone—anyone, since Seb is no longer an option—for exactly this reason.

  “Okay.” Jean-Luc turns to me. “After Angela began her internship with the Archaeology Society—”

  “Wait, I barely know about that,” I begin, remembering Seb’s quick explanation. “She wasn’t studying archaeology.”

  “No, she was doing research on urban planning in the catacombs. The Archaeology Society manages a team of people doing maintenance work in the tunnels. Dr. Leroux chose Angela to join them on projects after visiting hours, about a year ago.”

  “Has anyone spoken to Leroux? Could I?” We both look at Delphine.

  “I suppose. I don’t know him personally, but you might try contacting him via the university online portal.”

  “I’ll do that. What else?” I turn back to Jean-Luc.

  “Angela became more involved with the society,” he resumes. “Spending virtually all her free time there, and when she did manage to come to seminars, Angela was distracted. She wasn’t participating like before.”

  Delphine wears a weak smile. “That is correct. Angela was obsessed with her subject. She started taking mapping classes to deepen her understanding of the city’s tunnels.”

  “Why would people hate her for that?”

  Delphine hugs herself tighter. “They did not hate her. They envied her. A terrorist group claimed responsibility for the shooting—did you know? The shooter, the young man, joined the Red Brothers only the year prior. There has been a rise in nationalism here in France, like all of Europe at the moment. The United States, too. Many immigrant demographics here feel disenfranchised as a result of that rise, and the Red Brothers capitalized on that.”

  She pauses, likely inviting me to comment on the recent us-first mentality at home, but all I can picture is the swastika tattoo on the checkout clerk I encountered my first night here. Does what she’s saying mean there are more nationalists, Nazi sympathizers, or neo-Nazis in Paris? A new wave of extremists under fifty years old, like my cashier?

  “In any case—” She sighs. “Internal conflict boils as a result. Angela exuded the kind of social ease and grace that epitomizes equality, the freedom to move between cities and countries that many citizens of France still do not enjoy.”

  Jean-Luc clears his throat. “Do you think someone targeted Angela because of this envy, or because of her research?”

  “Like Emmanuelle Wood,” I add, remembering
Nour’s pinched expression.

  Delphine shakes her head. “Emmanuelle was a student in the history department, if I am not wrong. I have not seen her in weeks, but our paths rarely crossed.”

  Jean-Luc sits at the edge of his chair. “Is there a way to get Angela’s school schedule? The classes she chose for this next semester could offer some insight.”

  As Delphine escorts us to the registrar’s office to request a printout, I wonder whether this Manu might be the best authority on Angela’s life the last year, given her light stalking.

  Valentin’s words return from days ago in his office. It might be a woman.

  We thank Delphine, then exit the building into the courtyard. Topiaries line the walkway out to the street, our very own farewell committee. The words Delphine spoke about Angela continue to resonate: Less present. Impressive. Obsessed. Distracted. There was a drastic change in Angela’s persona over the last several years—that much is apparent. Before she moved an ocean away from me, her behavior was erratic and emotional but never withdrawn or obvious in public. Was she distracted because she was being harassed or because, like Delphine thinks, Angela was research obsessed? The more I learn, the clearer it is Paris changed my sister in ways I didn’t expect. She was better here. It pains me to say it, but away from us, from family, she seems to have been happier, overall. Balanced in a way that she never was at home.

  “Where to next?” Jean-Luc pauses beside me at the campus’s edge. Only a few bouquets of flowers remain of the piles of cellophane and ribbon I saw when I first searched for images of the Sorbonne—memorial offerings left by mourners. Square pieces of orange paper mingle with the small collection and advertise discounted sandwiches for students.