Seb stands while I busy myself with an essay on globalization. He certainly seemed intelligent. Opinions about science aside, I guess he would have to share some of Angela’s hippie-dippie beliefs in order to date her for so long. Twin powers?

Flipping backward through the eighteen-month planner, I get a snapshot of Angela’s life. The more recent days in late June are empty except for one containing a circle with the number fifty-eight inside it and a few notes that repeat on a weekly basis. Names and drawings begin around January; flipping back to December, every other day is scribbled with deadlines and bar outings. One square is decorated in candles and stars.

“Who is Nour?” I ask. “Angela went to her birthday party last August.”

Seb shakes his head. “No idea. But we should contact him or her. Nour can be the name of a man or a woman.”

I release a deep sigh. My understanding of everything feels so limited. “Well, where is Angela’s stuff? Cell phone, passport, purse.”

“Gone. I assume she had them when she disappeared. Perhaps the police have them. You could ask your inspector.” Seb stacks loose papers on the desk.

“What do you do again?” It makes sense that the police wouldn’t tell Seb any of the details. It’s an open investigation, and he’s not family. So is he plying me for information?

He returns my expectant gaze, then scoffs, reading my subtext perfectly. “I do research and work for the Paris Historical Archives. I apply neurological theories to remains found at archaeology sites. That’s how Angela and I came to meet, when she visited one of my projects.”

I turn back to the agenda and the near-empty month of June. Some people meet in coffee shops or through online dating. Never my sister, Angela, the romantic twin. She’d have to fall in love in a cold cave, where huddling together for warmth is synonymous with first base.

The green leather cover rubs soft against my dry fingers. A thick border is drawn around Thursday, June 28, in permanent marker, the day before Angela went missing during the shooting at the Sorbonne. I consult May and find the same thick border around each Thursday of the month. From April, extending back to the previous August, the Thursdays of each month are decorated with a square of black ink; the early squares contain the phrase BARRIÈRE D’ENFER.

“What does this mean?” I crouch beside Seb where he sifts through articles on the floor.

“It is the entrance to the catacombs of Paris.”

“And what does ‘Barrière d’Enfer’ mean?”

Sebastien grins a row of pointy teeth. “The Gate to Hell.”