Valentin stares out at the passing traffic. “Our forensic sciences team should turn in a final report on Monday. I would caution against too much optimism, however. Sometimes the elements remove all final clues. Bonne journée, Miss Darby.”

“Wait, I need more information here. You can’t expect me to—” I’m still reeling from this deluge of information when something about his words stops me: the elements—nature—as the most powerful of all, a belief Angela always championed.

“Miss Darby?” He leans his head in a way that is eerily familiar, like I’ve seen it before. Suddenly, his tone, the apologetic wish I could help you shrug goodbye, all ring insincere. Deliberate. Empty. The image of Ted Bundy giving interviews outside a Utah courthouse lunges forward in my thoughts. Jean-Luc’s voice follows: Psychopaths—those are the ones who sneak up on you. Is Valentin hiding something?

“Inspector, why did you take scissors from the crime scene earlier this week?”

“Pardon?”

“The crime scene I saw you at. The opera lover who died from a gunshot to the head. I saw you pocket a pair of scissors as you were walking out. Shears.”

A smirk, full blown, stretches his face. Newly grown gray whiskers twitch the corners of his mouth. “What is your meaning, please?”

“Were they the murder weapon? Why would you take them?”

He regards me a long while before speaking. “Miss Darby, I understand your . . . query. Some might say paranoia. I want to find your sister’s killer as much as you do, truly. And I am not the person who should worry you.”

Valentin nods goodbye, then stands and crosses the street. I keep him in sight until he disappears behind another red-and-white-striped awning toward the river.

Conflicting emotions push and pull within me. His smirk dropped as quickly as it appeared, replaced with unease. Whether I believe him—that a serial killer is randomly targeting people, that the body double’s cause of death is unknown—he won’t be sharing additional details.

Manu is a twin. The photograph of the smiling young woman in the desert suddenly seems material, and I regret not grabbing them all from the dresser. Was there a photo of Manu and her sister? Manu may be dead—may not be related to the serial murders—but Valentin didn’t say Angela had been cleared of involvement. The framed photo of Manu and that man, the same one Angela has a photo of, further punts any premature relief. The photos form an undeniable link between the two women. And I have both hidden in my duffel under sweaty tank tops.