I run a finger along one of the empty shelves and trace a thick line in the dust, like a scene from an old wood-cleaner commercial. A sewer entrance lies near hidden by a grate, but the space is otherwise empty. Loïc elaborates on the mortuary practices of the crypt. I keep hoping he’ll drop in something relevant to my search; instead, he switches to tidbits about The Da Vinci Code. Apparently, a sister tour is offered at the Church of Saint-Sulpice. Fabulous.

Divine Research. God’s studies. Angelic academia.

The crowd ambles forward like bored cattle exiting the atrium. Chang and I meet at the front. “Did you find what you were looking for?” Chang asks.

“What do you mean?” I lead us down a side street back toward the river. More taxis tend to idle that way.

“Well, I always go to church—any church—mosque, temple, public park, wherever God plants before me when She knows I need help. Especially when I’m feeling lost or confused. Seemed a little odd to me that you went down to the crypts instead of a pew, but to each her own.”

Thinking back on the dusty shelves I touched, and the anecdotes Loïc tossed out, I’m not sure I gained anything. “Probably should have chosen a back row.”

Chang shoots me a shy smile. “Hey, we have another two days until you go, right? We could always come back. Have to fill that time with something.”

We return to the apartment building, and Chang follows me all the way upstairs. I unlock the door and step inside. Chang surveys the space from the doorway. Without a word, she sets about righting furniture and organizing half-full crates. Replacing the bed frame and mattress against the wall takes some doing, but together we make it happen. Chang scans the items at her feet—clothing, untaped boxes, stacks of papers—then rubs her arms. Like she’s trying to get warm. Slowly, she turns reddened eyes to me. I sit perched on the twin bed, legs tucked underneath like I’m ten years old again. The solid white comforter is soft, worn in a few places, and a cigarette ring has singed a square of fabric. Chang asks me something, but all I can think right now is how Angela would never smoke. But maybe Paris Angela would. “Sorry, what?”

“I said you’re doing really good, Shayna. This isn’t easy, and I see you doing the best that you can here.” Chang steps across a box to the bed and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Angela gave me permission to enter her apartment if I ever felt it was necessary. So now I’m going to give you the same: Come downstairs whenever you need anything, all right?”

I nod, because my throat is clenched tight.

Chang smiles. “Good girl.” Then she shuts the door behind her.