I have half a mind to scream at him, to slam my fist against the desk like the fucking Hulk, but I measure my tone. “Like what? What if someone tries to contact me since I’m Angela’s sister? Shouldn’t I know whom to avoid? If I were a killer and I saw me and thought my job wasn’t done, I would—” But the words finish the task won’t go past my teeth; I’m fully realizing for the first time, in Angela’s city, wearing a mirror of her face, how close I am to that reality. The only worst-case scenario left: me going missing, too.

His thumbs reverse direction. “We have been carefully monitoring developments in an adjacent investigation, believing it might be linked to your sister’s death. I cannot release specific information at this time. Have you been following the news?”

“No, I’ve been busy mourning,” I snap.

“French news. Le Monde, Le Figaro. There have been multiple murders recently, all bearing similar marks to those found on your sister. Clément Gress?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Gress was the first of these. He was found in a dumpster behind a frozen foods store. He had been dead for hours, yet missing for days.”

“And how is he similar to Angela?”

He shakes his head. “He is not, overtly. None of them are. Their commonalities are restricted to the cranial bullet wound and one or more tattoos of some kind. Therein lies the problem.”

“So you think someone took Angela from campus, during the shooting, during all the chaos. And that person may have killed already before that?”

“Possibly. We don’t know whether the abductor is a series murderer or whether they acted uniquely. We are still determining what happened in the ten days between Angela’s disappearance and the body’s discovery in the river. That is why we need to confirm the identity of the corpse tomorrow, to search for additional commonalities with the others. A family member’s identification will push the American government to provide dental and medical records more quickly.”

I nod, but my mind locks on two words, barely hearing the rest. My heart pounds against the thin cotton of my tank top. “A series murderer. Like . . . a serial killer? You think Angela was murdered by a serial killer?”

Bright-green eyes fix on mine as Valentin inhales a minty breath. “Good day, Miss Darby.”