I step away from the whiteboard, feeling it burn at my back, and cross to the small counter of the kitchen nook. Seb had retrieved a mini water bottle from the fridge; I pound it. The coolness of the water is a shock to my insides, like the flood of cortisol to my system.

My eyes flit to the twin hieroglyphics on the whiteboard. Part of me wants to run with this rejuvenated squeak of hope, and part of me knows Angela’s gone. The note is just an eerie coincidence. I can’t lose sight of why I’m here: to answer some questions for Inspector Valentin, confirm that the body they have is Angela’s, pack up her apartment, donate clothing and textbooks I don’t want, and ship her home to San Diego on Tuesday.

I step out into the hall, dimly lit by the skylight, and assess the landing—empty. Angela’s is the only apartment on this floor in the narrow building, as though its architect was in a hurry to reach the top and forgot to create a neighbor. I try to lock up, but the dead bolt is resistant. The key moves millimeter by millimeter counterclockwise, and I alternate pushing and pulling on the door to try to line up the bolt and the hole, until I begin swearing.

“May I help you?”

I scream and whirl to face a man standing at the stairwell. Thick blond hair falls across his alarmed expression. Flat palms snap to his chest.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No,” I gasp. “I’m fine.”

The man frowns, takes a step backward. “Did you need help closing up?” A French accent billows his words, the vowels taking on a rounded sound. High cheekbones make him appear underfed.

“Thank you, I got it.” I push against the door and confirm the lock is secure.

He straightens a purple dress shirt, then holds out a hand. “Shayna Darby? My name is Jean-Luc Fillion. I’m your embassy liaison.”

“My what?”

“I’m from the American embassy.” He lowers his hand when I don’t move. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Miss Darby. The embassy would like to be of service to you, whatever you need, while you’re in Paris. I don’t know if you saw me, but I was at Charles de Gaulle waiting for you, after the digital fingerprint stations.” He pauses. “With a sign.”

The wheels slowly begin turning in my overloaded brain. Yesterday, before I left for the airport, a member of the embassy called to say he would meet me at baggage claim, to help me handle anything that might arise while I’m here. Apparently I promptly forgot about it. “Yes. I mean, thanks for driving out here to catch me.”