Valentin’s eyebrows draw up and together. “The morgue is only open Monday through Friday for nonemergencies. If I may ask, why schedule your visit for so short a duration?”

“Shit.”

“Miss Darby?”

Why did I assume we would go immediately? The last few days, I’ve been distracted trying to wrap my head around Angela’s death. In contrast, when my parents died, I asked so many questions that I was given a copy of their incident file to ensure I had the same information the police had. Granted, their case wasn’t shrouded in ambiguity—it was a car crash, plain and simple. Except it wasn’t. Not to me, anyway.

“Miss Darby?”

I shake my head, snapping back to the present. “I wanted to stay longer. My trip is brief because classes start next week and I have tons of work to do before then . . .” My voice trails off as I hear my own idiocy. Your sister is dead. Valentin doesn’t blink, but I get the sense he’s mentally recording everything I say, each sniff I make.

“All right, so what can I do today? Have there been signs posted—Last seen with—or some tip line set up? Have the police cross-referenced phone numbers from her cell phone with new acquaintances? I could go through her old emails and try to find any red flags. I can be extremely meticulous, and I’d like to help—”

Valentin lifts a hand before I finish speaking. “There is nothing for you to do, Miss Darby. We are pursuing this investigation in every way possible. Even if your sister were alive, I would not ask you to hold a press conference and plead for information regarding her whereabouts. That is not the French way. You will have to content yourself with waiting and avoiding strangers while the police continue their efforts.”

A shiver climbs my spine. All the better. Public speaking is Angela’s forte; I can’t imagine a million people watching my panic attack.

Valentin reaches across a stack of folders and hands me a business card. He clears his throat. “You have my office phone and now my mobile phone. Please call if you have any questions before tomorrow morning.”

I stare at his card a moment before registering that he thinks the conversation is over. “But what about her killer?” I can’t leave without something—anything that says progress is being made, that I’m not in this all alone. Leaning forward, I grip the edge of his desk. “Don’t you have any suspects? What are you doing to find this guy?”

Valentin sits back in his chair, thumbs twiddling in infuriating nonchalance. “It might be a woman, Shayna. We’re pursuing several leads.”