Regret pinches my stomach, watching her search for a way through this. Chang has only been generous and understanding since we met, and I deliberately put her in this position, one which could end in our arrest. If we step out now, we’ll be rounded up. If we try and sneak back to Montmartre on foot, we’ll be rounded up. God only knows what the French penal code entails. Some form of Miranda rights, probably, but I doubt they come with an interpreter. “Chang, how close are we to the Pantheon?”

She gives me a sideways glance. “Maybe five blocks. Why?”

“There’s another entrance.” I peer out onto the street again, but Chang’s strong grasp pulls me back.

“I doubt it. Most of the entrances were sealed or grates have been put over them. This one is the last entrance that’s still usable within three miles.”

Pride tightens my chest. Excitement rises with the certainty that Angela left me all the clues necessary in her apartment. “Not all of them.”

We pick our way along well-lit portions of street and sprint across each intersection after a careful pause. A siren screams past us once, but no cars stop. The sun is almost up and, once it is, our cover will be gone. When we arrive at the neoclassical mausoleum, I cut right and focus on hazy memories of Thursday night. The bookstore here doesn’t look familiar, so I reverse direction down the street until I spy the convenience store, the one that Mathieu stood in front of on my tour of historical brothels.

“Shayna?” Chang’s voice is strained. I push on, jogging to the next street, where I turn right. “Shayna,” she says again. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

A brick wall extends the half block of the alley. Beyond it is a busier street, Rue du Renard, across from the Pantheon, and the one where I cut in line to grab a cab after escaping Mathieu’s bruising grip.

“Shayna, you don’t have to torture yourself by going everywhere your sister did.”

I stop in the middle of the road, panting. “What?”

Chang walks toward me with her palms up. “I don’t mean to overstep, but I spoke to Angela about her research on the catacombs. I know that’s why you want to go underground. If what you need is to go home and take care of yourself, that’s okay, too. You look like you might need sleep.”

Though she speaks quietly and throws a glance behind her, her words fill my ears like the booming bass back in the club. I stare at the ground littered with broken glass and cigarette butts, weighing the truth of those options. It’s possible I’ll never find my sister. And, even if I do, things may not ever go back to the way they were, to being half of that happy family in the photograph.