Narcissism. Intricate underground tunnels. Twin for the win.

Sprawling flat on my back on the papers covering the wooden floor, I close my eyes. The tightness in my chest bursts into a sob that I swear carries down to the main entrance. Reaching out for Angela, trying to open my mind the way she always insisted we could, leaves me more frustrated as salty streams dry on my cheeks. This entire time I’ve felt like I was chasing the ghost of my sister, wondering if I even knew her anymore. Guilt crashes into me as I stare at this library of her hints. Everything she needed from me is stacked in haphazard piles, and I haven’t been able to deliver on any of it.

Another headline surges forward from my jumbled thoughts: the dangers of trafficking as described on the front page of the lobby’s newspaper my first day. I sit up, stricken.

If I stop to think, there have been hints everywhere I turned. The miniature TVs found in each cab I take, the ticker announcing the latest trafficking concern. Not vehicular traffic, but human trafficking. Chang mentioned the catacombs are one part tourist attraction, one part trafficking hub. Hugo even mentioned the police shutting down off-the-record entrances.

Psychopaths—those are the ones who sneak up on you. Jean-Luc stalked my sister, and like any good predator, he has been following me all week, relishing my discovery of the details of Angela’s kidnapping, too arrogant to believe he would be found out, hiding in plain sight. Is he part of the trafficking ring? Is that how Angela came to be on his radar—through her research, spending time in the catacombs after hours, maybe stumbling across one of the tunnels they used? As Valentin suspects, the recent murders are impersonal. Clean. Driven by a higher need, with men and women being abducted arbitrarily. Human traffickers don’t need anyone in particular; they need bodies.

I get dressed as quietly as possible, throwing on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. My passport is already in the inner pocket of my messenger bag, and I add the Taser to the mix. My thoughts turn to Hugo, but he’s not the person I need now. Not Hugo, Seb, Valentin, or even Nour. Creeping downstairs as quietly as possible at four thirty in the morning, I hope against hope I’m doing the right thing.

Chang still wears the white leotard and red plastic skirt she owned in the deejay booth, but the neon makeup has been removed. When she opens her door, she lets out a gasp.

“Shayna. Is everything okay?”

I pause. The memory of the matching twins in the photo on Angela’s corkboard, hand in hand, a representation of singular happiness, quiets my nerves. “I need to go to the catacombs. Can you take me?”