Behind the sweeping wooden desk, a middle-aged woman with Shirley Temple curls clacks out a thundering rhythm on a keyboard. “Mademoiselle, bonjour,” she says as I approach.

“Bonjour, madame. Inspecteur Valentin? J’ai rendez-vous avec.”

The receptionist smirks at my five-year-old’s French but picks up a telephone and speaks quietly into the receiver. With a sharp nod to me, she replies, “Take a seat,” in English.

Most people in the lobby this Sunday afternoon are drunk, high, or talking to themselves, except for an older woman knitting pink yarn that barely hangs past her wrists. I pick the corner bench nearest the desk just before another one-way glass door swings open. A small man in slacks and a tie breezes through, barely breaking stride as he zeros in on me. A cloud of mint moves with him, cutting through the smell of stale booze and body odor.

“Mademoiselle Darby, bonjour. Je suis l’inspecteur Valentin.” He extends a firm handshake, drawing himself up to meet my height. A bulbous nose is his leading feature, countering a heavy brow. Thinning hair dusts the crown of his head and gathers into a ring of curls, monk-style. Brilliant green eyes seem to extract information without speech, assessing and searching my face. “Suivez-moi.”

I follow him down a brightly lit hall and pass an office clearing stuffed with cubicles. He pauses beside a glass wall that separates his office from the peons but still gives the visual illusion that he remains a part of the team. The door bears the outline of a predecessor’s name.

“Alors, Mademoiselle Darby.” Valentin closes the door behind me, cutting the noise of chatter and phone calls in half.

“Excusez-moi, mais . . . Can we speak in English, please?” Speaking to him over the phone was a damned travesty. Although he did switch from French to English when I asked, between the faint transatlantic communication and his accent, I only understood every other word.

Valentin’s eyes narrow. Slender fingers tug on a black necktie, loosening the knot without shifting his gaze. “Of course.”

He steps behind a desk to sit in a leather swivel armchair, surveying the folders and envelopes that cover the surface. “Sit down, please.”

I move a series of clipped papers from a chair to the floor and do as I’m told.

“Firstly, I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Darby. I cannot imagine the pain you must be experiencing in this moment.” The words are well rehearsed, probably used far too often, but I struggle for footing all the same. Relief at knowing Angela is alive battles with the intense grief stomping my heart, shaking me certain my sister is dead.

Seb’s words reverberate in my head: The note could have been there then.