If Angela was following me on Tuesday, she may have been following me this whole week. Something must make her hesitate to approach me outright. Even though I’m in her personal space, her apartment, her neighborhood. Something, or someone, won’t let her.

Ducking beneath the tiny faucet in her bathroom, I mentally review my progress. Late last night, a poke under the armoire for other possible clues came up empty. A Google search verified some of Nour’s and Seb’s tidbits about the catacombs. Most disturbingly, the Nazis did use the network of tunnels during their occupation of Paris. One named Josef Molinare tortured concentration camp prisoners—he was obsessed with twins. Molinare gave them gifts of blankets and extra food during the day, but they always disappeared at night.

I shiver as I exit the shower, memories of the encyclopedia webpage feeling too personal. Once I’m dressed, I continue sifting through the piles, reexamining everything. At least a dozen notecards were thrown in her trash—

The trash.

I dive to my knees and clutch the round waste bin to my chest. I pull out the notecards and tissues I’ve added, eyeing each one. Seb didn’t think we should throw anything away, not yet; I was the one to dismiss and disregard these items, so intent on doing a surface scan, not probing further.

A brochure lies squished at the bottom. A giant cross and a stone facade grace the cover, along with a fearsome-looking gargoyle. Les cryptes de l’église Notre Dame. No ticket or receipt is squished with it to let me know how recent this excursion is, but it’s a church—a clear link to the clue Divine. And better than divining tissues.

Turning the brochure over, searching for another drawing, I almost miss it—a pattern. Of dots, much in the way Angela and I used to send messages in Coke cans from the beach.

On napkins, we wrote out what we imagined were mysterious images to the untrained eye—dot drawings, unknowingly imitating pointillism—attempting to re-create Magic Eye images that could only be seen for what they are by holding them far away from your face and crossing your eyes. The dots on the back of this brochure string together a rectangular shape, with an oval top and a tab: a soda can.

Happiness clamps down on my chest.

Opening my laptop beside Angela’s, I search through my inbox for the list of the embassy’s emergency-only phone numbers. If ever there was a time to reach for help, it’s now. I use the Skype account I last called Angela with years ago, and a man answers after two cheery rings. “American Embassy Emergencies Abroad, how can I help you?” he says in perfect English.

A sigh chokes in my mouth, hearing the warm accent of home. “Yes, I’m wondering if the embassy can help reschedule nonrefundable flights.”