Angela was born a mere two minutes before me, but she took with her the creativity of the womb, leaving me to steep in pragmatism.

Where is she now? Is she in some drawer? Is it cold? Is she alone?

“Merci, monsieur.” I place the money in the driver’s grooved palm, then exit the cab. Pairs of people move across the open square of the adjacent Pigalle metro stop, as if the buddy system is obligatory—everything better with someone else there to share it. Twin girls with yellow hair skip rope by a fountain, and a breath whooshes out of me as I watch them. Over the fountain’s spouts a sculpture of the Greek goddess Persephone hunches. Her carved expression howls with sadness, and tears of pigeon shit frame her mouth.

When Angela first arrived, she sent photos of herself in front of the Eiffel Tower with silk scarves wrapped around her dark hair, sunglasses covering half her face. Her Grace Kelly phase from adolescence never fully expired. It was Angela’s sense of poise—the confidence that she could rival a princess—that made her so enthralling to men and women. The only stranger I ever idolized was Marie Curie.

Different scenarios leaped to mind when I read the first email from Sebastien saying Angela was missing—then the second, then the third, announcing her death. I tried to rationalize the irrational: Angela was over their relationship and stopped returning his calls. Angela took an impromptu trip to Turkey (her way of moving on). Angela packed up in the middle of the night and changed apartments without telling him. My sister loved a dramatic exit almost as much as a romantic beginning.

I was wrong. After struggling through French headlines on Le Monde’s website about a shooting at the Sorbonne University, where Angela was doing doctoral research, I started the calls. I left ten messages on Angela’s voice mail. I called a dozen different numbers associated with the Paris police and spoke with indignant Parisians who could not understand my shitty French. When the American embassy contacted me as Angela’s next of kin, the news became real. When Inspector Valentin called to inform me of Angela’s probable homicide, it became a nightmare.

“Bracelets, mademoiselle?” A man in a torn T-shirt lurches into my path, waving red and white woven bracelets two inches from my face. He dangles another at my nose, grabs my hand to slip it on my wrist, but I jerk away.

“No!”

He reacts like I slapped him—eyebrows up, open mouth. I add merci to my curt rejection, but he’s already approaching a young family.

Deep breath. You just got here. Chill the fuck out. I shake the sudden tension from my fists and look upward to the sky. Clear blue strung with wispy cirrus clouds fills my vision as I wait for the clenching fear to pass.