Shadows stretch across the hardwood floor and the paper I’ve organized into piles. I nod off twice before deciding on a cup of instant coffee I find in the kitchen. My bones ache from little to no sleep last night. Was that only last night?

Think, Shayna. I’ve reviewed all the boxes of papers and knickknacks first opened with Seb. Where would Angela hide a clue? I climb onto her desk chair and peer down from above: nothing. I get down on my hands and knees to look beneath her bed (again), then her armoire and find a farm of dust bunnies. And . . . and remember something.

Seb looked beneath here and added two pieces of paper he found to one of Angela’s folders—nothing interesting, grocery receipts, I think, but Seb didn’t want to throw anything away. I launch over to the desk, to a manila folder titled SORBONNE RECORDS in my sister’s slanted hand. My fingers shake as I riffle through the pile, passing over receipts for pasta and tomato sauce, then pausing on two receipts I skimmed my first day here. One is for a nightclub and the other a historical tour of something called bordels. The web browser on my laptop translates it as brothels. There’s no website for the company listed on the receipt, but user reviews in French say it’s great for native Parisians, and other stuff that doesn’t make sense with subpar translation engines.

Holding up the receipt against the afternoon sunlight, an image ghosts through the paper. Excitement drains the moisture from my mouth as I realize I know these shapes. I flip it over. A sun and moon are drawn in pencil with a plus sign in between.

Angela’s light cadence whispers in my head: Good day, Moon.

No one else thought the nickname was anything but sweet, except for me. To me, it was a callout, salt in the wound, a reminder that everyone outside our family preferred her charismatic, sunny disposition. Disappointment, anger, and hurt all collide in a ball that lumps in my throat, then mingles with hope as I stare at the drawing. I found something no one else did. Angela must have left this for me. After staring at—savoring—the receipt a minute longer, I zip it away in the inner pocket of my bag.

The sun dips in the corner of the window behind apartment buildings, casting somber shade on the crowds of people heading to dinner or out to the bar. My stomach knots thinking about my morning. The body. The sedan.