Nour laughs, a husky sound that contrasts with her petite frame. Her hands shove deep into the pantsuit jumper she wears, but she doesn’t teeter in her four-inch heels. “I don’t. I’m just the costume designer, filling in for someone on holiday. Wish I could help.”

I try to remember why I thought this was a good idea. What I came to do, exactly. “Well, I think they said his last name was Leroux. Could we at least see in ticket records if he came here with someone? Is there someone I could ask?”

Nour’s amused expression turns tense. Her gaze shifts past me then back toward the main hall of patrons. “I’m sorry, Shayna. The police were already here this evening, so I doubt anyone will show you anything without a . . . what is the word? Certificate? Warrant? I could tell you anything you’d like about the last month’s designs.”

“Do you have any idea what the police asked for?”

She sighs. I’m grasping at straws and possibly pushing Nour too far, but I don’t really see another choice. The coincidence of the yellow bag obligates me to ask, to beg.

She fingers the edge of the headscarf’s fabric, rolling it between thumb and acrylic-tipped forefinger. “Sorry, love. I wasn’t even allowed in the room. They went through the ticket office, and I was asked to step outside. All opera traffic was shut down for a good fifteen minutes.”

The tiny flame of hope snuffs out in my chest. Too much of my search has been contingent upon what-ifs. What if Nour saw something, saw someone? It was a fool’s hope, anyway, to ask Nour to risk her job integrity and dig into opera records. After Jean-Luc’s reaction to me leading him into something similar, I’m lucky Nour hasn’t slowly backed away. I shouldn’t be wasting time on random hypotheticals with three days left before I go home, but desperation is creeping up like the flu. A shudder traces my neck, and Nour sees. The cream skulls of her hijab twist against light-green fabric.

“Are you finding your way around the city okay? How has it been? I hope you’ve at least been able to enjoy—” She pauses, catching herself. “To see a few things.”

I rub my arms, recalling the warmth of the brothel. “Yeah, discovering a lot. My phone got stolen, though. A pack of roaming kids grabbed it.”

“Seriously? That’s terrible,” she huffs. “They’re everywhere lately. Probably because school is out.”

I nod, taking a second to admire her English.

Nour sniffs. “You should be careful walking around. Those children sneak through crowds and pick the pockets of tourists or French people who look lost.”

“Yeah, I’ll be wary of them from now on. Thanks.”