The comfort of the police holding cell took me by surprise. Its singular cushy bench might serve as a bed in a pinch, and a straight-backed, carved wooden chair in the corner could have been found in Delphine Rousseau’s office. Nothing adorns the stone walls, but a stack of outdated magazines fills a woven basket at my feet. They’ve let me keep my own clothing for now, and I was thankful to retain the wool blanket I was given at the catacombs.

I raise my head and lurch backward; a petite woman, a ghost, stands at the metal bars, like some rendition of Jacob Marley with glasses. Asymmetrically cut black hair and the bedazzled jean jacket she wears can only identify her as one person.

“Chang? How are you—?”

“Oh, I’m alive, all right. Barely.” She lowers her voice and beckons me closer. A sense of déjà vu washes over me as I cross the ten-foot space, just like the day I met her in the apartment building. She casts another glance at the lobby, then reaches through the bars to pat my arm. “How are you?”

“Chang!” Gleeful laughter tumbles from my mouth, a long trill that surprises us both, and I hug her small frame. My throat clamps shut, and I have to blink back new tears. “How is that possible? Seb killed you.”

“That Sebastien was too transparent. Obsessed with the catacombs and those rooms since he was a kid. He used to tell me all his discoveries when we ran into each other in the tunnels.” She muses on these things like it was a year instead of just hours ago he tried to kill us both. “After he took you girls, he came back for me. But I climbed into a series of pocket spaces he didn’t know about and hid until I was sure he was gone. I passed out for a while—concussions will do that—and by the time I got out, it was Sunday afternoon.” She rubs her shoulder, massaging between large costume rubies on her shoulder pads. “I called the police right away and told them your location. Did they get to you quickly?” The skin below her eyes is a purplish black, half-moons reflecting her own battle back to fresh air. A long red scratch covers her neck from ear to clavicle.

“Not quick enough,” I reply. Chang nods like she already knows all the details I can’t say in this setting. “I’m so sorry, Chang. About everything. Thank you. I . . . I had to find my sister.” Aloud, the words sound hollow; they don’t dull the fact that helping us almost cost this woman her life.

She smiles. “I understand. I’m glad the pair of you is okay. She is okay, isn’t she?”

I nod, not quite trusting the police aren’t listening to my answer.

“What about your flight?” Chang asks. “Did you miss it already?”