My head has stopped throbbing, but I still feel disoriented, like a bubble encases my every move. Although I wanted to kick and scream going underground on Monday, I had to see for myself what beguiled my sister. I had to verify the question that felt so ridiculous to voice: Could Angela be hiding underground? Seeing it for myself—the cold darkness, the miles upon miles of chutes, passages, and cracks in the walls—cemented my suspicion that No, no one could, as Seb affirmed. No one could live underground indefinitely, but they could be held there in transit before being shipped off to a buyer in another country. Returning to the catacombs now is the right next step, now that I know what I’m looking for. I’ll find the proof that Angela was taken there, that she’s been hiding from her abductors—Jean-Luc and whoever he’s working with—then go to Valentin with everything.

Alive. A deep breath rattles in my chest. The sight of Angela’s whiteboard hasn’t left my mind since I got here, along with the terror and exhilaration of reading her words. My stomach knots as I repeat my new mantra and know this time in my marrow it’s true.

“I love sharing this world, Shayna, but you’ve been before—I haven’t been in ages,” Chang says. She rummages in her bag, withdrawing a roll of duct tape, then a cellophane-wrapped almond cookie that she offers to me. “Are you tired? We could always go later today—you leave Sunday?”

The variety of items from that bag never disappoints; I shake my head at the cookie. “Probably best to go now. While the crowds are low.”

Chang doesn’t reply to what I think is an obvious joke. She removes her glasses, then cleans them on her shirt. Seeing her with contacts at the club was weird.

“You’re probably right. The scene—the network—used to be lively at all hours, but things have changed. Regular people go underground less with all the smuggling nowadays.”

“What was it like before?”

“It used to autoregulate—a few kingpins managed it—but once the catacombs became a tourist destination—have you been to Disneyland? The main tour route reminds me of that—big names got arrested and black market activities picked up again. The powers that be sealed all the well-known entrances, but they missed a few.”

My mind pulses with scenarios, but I can’t focus with the French news being reported on the car radio. Words I don’t grasp spew from the speakers. An apology for interrupting the usual music. Other words carry forward. Tonight. Sunrise. Local forces. The driver’s dark eyes narrow in the rearview. He slows at a stop sign, then peers around him before accelerating, speeding across the Pont Neuf.