“Well, that’s easy,” she says, brightening. “The catacombs were Angela’s doctoral subject, right? They used to link every major door of vice in the city at one point. The black market was conducted underground for a long time, and brothels were a part of that—some scheme to allow husbands to sneak away from their wives.” Nour rolls her eyes toward the gilded ceiling.

My breath comes shallow as images of the last few days, the last few hours, return. The round metal manhole of the brothel entrance.

“Remember Hugo?” Nour continues. “He’s a total history fiend. If you have any other questions about Paris, you should ask him. Plus, his schedule is less crazy than mine. Launching this production of La Bohème is such a time suck.” She offers a crooked smile.

The hurricane of thoughts in my head pauses at her suggestion. Another guide? The memory of my last two and their issues stops me from automatically accepting. Following someone else around with so little time left in Paris sounds as terrible as showing up on Nour’s doorstep unannounced. No, that’s another chance I can’t take. Jean-Luc’s quiet guidance came with restrictions. So will Hugo’s.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll have time. I’m leaving Sunday night.”

She shrugs, her hands back in her pockets. “Well, if you change your mind, he’s usually at the same spot on Fridays. He deejays from eight to eleven, before the main act at— Oh! I almost forgot.” She disappears inside the box office. A few seconds later she returns, rummaging in her purse. She withdraws a paper flyer, then scrawls something across the back. “Et voilà. Hugo’s number and your note.”

I pause, accepting the square. “My note?”

Nour cocks her head to the side. “It’s yours, isn’t it? On the back. Your do-tos? To-dos. You know what I mean.”

I flip the sheet over to examine a list of handwritten items:

Land in Paris

Go see Nour

Go clubbing

Go home to San Diego

“Thanks, but this isn’t mine.”

Her skin creases between her eyes. “It was outside my door after you left my apartment. I went to get groceries, and it was partially under my doormat. If not yours, whose?”

I struggle to think back to Tuesday. So much has happened in the last three days, a mad-dash recap of scenes would be helpful, like when sitcoms offer their viewers a visual summary after a long hiatus. As is, I remember leaving her apartment, then sprinting to the police station. “I don’t know, I—” And then I see it. In the lower-left-hand corner of the flyer, in our secret twin language, the word help is penciled in at a slant, uneven, like Angela wrote while resting the page on her pants leg or the wall of a building.