I pay the cab driver and get out, expecting my knees to buckle, but they hold fast. The air is cool with the sun long gone, sloughing off the grimy feeling that’s encased me since I ran away, providing the energy to finish out tonight’s itinerary. With each step forward, my body falls into a rhythm on autopilot. Pigeons peer up at me, then flutter aside at the last second, the parting of the gray sea. A white-and-black one stops sprinting away to peer at me.

I want to go home. Back to San Diego, where I was devastated but things made sense.

Inside the square box office window, a young woman with an emerald nose ring picks at a fingernail. A hijab patterned with skulls drapes her head down to her chest.

“Nour?”

Vanity bulbs that frame the window highlight her beaming smile. The tension in my shoulders releases seeing her familiar face. Maybe that’s residual shock.

“Shayna? What are you doing here, love?”

“Hey. Any chance opera tours are still going?”

Nour tilts her head, her pink lipstick pressing to the side. “Done for hours. But I can give you the VIP tour.” She slips me a stub that says Gratuit. Free. “Meet me inside.”

The lobby remains crowded, patrons discussing in groups or taking photos. People mingle along a large reception hall leading into the main theater. A thick, polished railing winds along an ornate staircase covered in rich carpeting and golden rods that restrain the fabric from bunching, while crystals forming a chandelier overhead chime with the gust of air I bring in. Nour skips down the steps from the main level to kiss me hello on both cheeks. Her hijab comes loose, but she pins it back with a practiced motion.

“What do you want to see? I have a small break right now before we close up and can show you around.” She smiles and reminds me how easy it felt in her apartment. “There’s also a set of costumes from the Metropolitan Opera here on loan, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me about someone who came to the opera recently. Is that possible?”

Nour squints until her eyes are all mascara. “What do you mean?”

“There’s someone who may be related to Angela’s disappearance. He was found dead, and I overheard the police say they think he came to the opera the night before he died. Do you have access to video surveillance or anything from Friday, July 13?”

A woman passes by carrying an identical copy of the yellow OPÉRA DE PARIS shopping bag I saw at the crime scene.