“What do you want?” I ask, my voice trembling. The person moves fully into the room, and I blink hard, not sure what is happening.

“Exactly as I thought. We’re leaving this apartment, Shayna.” Chang stares at me. A reprimand is on her lips, but she peers at me with concern.

“You . . . Did you just break into Angela’s apartment?”

Chang’s thin eyebrows lift. “From where I stand, I just interrupted a very depressed afternoon. Come with me.”

I struggle to my feet. The pamphlet to the crypts remains on Angela’s desk, now pushed to the wall. I grab the folded paper, then meet Chang at the door.

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

from: Angela Darby <[email protected]>

to: “Darby, Shayna” <[email protected]>

subject: Update #1

Hello, sister.

Although you may not know it, today is All Saints’ Day in France—Toussaints. It’s the day after Halloween, which I celebrated with a trio of American girls from Wisconsin, and the beginning of the holidays—aka the Period of Unrelenting Solitude for Those of Us Alone. It’s been three months since our last email, our last fight over Skype. My guess is: You did not sell our childhood home? (My spidey sense is tingling.) And while I meant what I said, that I needed space, indefinitely, I can’t deny the gnawing need to communicate with you, dear twin. To tell you all the things I’ve been withholding, as I’ve begun to climb out from the muck, from the bottomless pit of mourning, and the Camembert. O, the Camembert.

School has been rough this semester for obvious reasons. It continues to be hard to focus, mostly late at night. When I come home after a long day, the emptiness creeps in to fill my chest, like a slime I can’t siphon out. I know I don’t need to describe it to you.

The less obvious reason is I’m not French and am learning the French are quite aware of this fact. Well, yes and no. The less-less obvious reason is I don’t look French. I don’t look American, from what our movies have told the locals here, either. For all their laïcité, their desire to remove religion from government affairs, any obstacle that might impede societal cohesion, the French are hyperfascinated with my pays d’origine. What is your country of origin, they ask. “Well, I’m American,” I reply. But they shake their head. No, no, where are you from? They won’t relent until I say my mother is from China and my father’s family is Scottish and Dutch.