THE WEIRD, WEIRD thing about devastating loss is that life actually goes on. When you’re faced with a tragedy, a loss so huge that you have no idea how you can live through it, somehow, the world keeps turning, the seconds keep ticking.

Within hours of Angel’s disappearance, while my heart was still raw and bleeding and in denial, Paris was already starting to recover. Cleanup teams swarmed the Place de la Concorde; officials tested radiation levels. Fang had given them information about what still lurked in the crushed tunnels beneath the city, and they’d deployed military experts and bomb squads to finish the job that Gazzy had done so amazingly well, for a nine-year-old.

We’d combed all the hospitals and trauma units, pushing aside curtains, bursting into rooms, praying we’d see Angel’s filthy, wounded face—alive. But we didn’t.

As a beautiful sunset painted the area with blood-red hues, people began to pull themselves together. I wanted to grab strangers and yell, “Don’t you understand what’s happened?” But I knew it was pointless. It was only my pain searching for an outlet.

Finally, Fang came and found me, where I had collapsed in exhaustion, near the blast site. I looked up through dry and mournful eyes. “If we haven’t found her body yet, then she’s still alive,” I said.

He sat down, took my hand in his. Slowly, he shook his head. He looked like he’d aged about ten years in the past twenty-four hours. His face was drawn and gaunt. His hair and clothes were still caked with grit and blood. He shook his head again, slowly.

“No, Max,” he said. “Probably not.”

I wanted to scream, “It’s your fault! You’re the one who left her!” But it wasn’t his fault. Because I had left all three of them.

“We’re… taking off,” Fang said.

I knew my face was splotchy and tear stained; my clothes were filthy and covered with soot and blood and dust; my hair was matted with ash and grit.

“What?” I asked dully.

Nudge had been sleeping against my shoulder, and now she roused and blinked groggily.

Fang gestured toward his gang waiting several feet away. They looked whipped and dirty, and they had new, sad, firsthand knowledge about some of the awful things that can happen in the world. Strangely, seeing them warmed my heart a little. They were starting to look like they belonged with us.

“We’re going to take off,” Fang repeated. “The cops got some of the DG organizers, but not whoever or whatever was supposed to be the One Light. Gazzy filled me in on what he and—on what he’d learned at their headquarters. So we’re going after that. It doesn’t sound like Mark was the kingpin—he was only a servant of the One Light.”

“Huh,” I said, unable to offer more of a reaction.