Gooseflesh covers my skin as I scan his face for a laugh, a flinch, a tell. Is he kidding? I search my meager store of French history and what I remember from the handful of French films I watched with Angela. Is such a macabre name common here? More importantly, Seb seems to be enjoying my discomfort, his grin widening. Is he messing with me?

“Are you okay, Shayna?”

“I’m not sure. Is that really the translation of ‘Barrière d’Enfer’?”

Seb rises, straightening to his full height. His outline blocks the desk lamp. “Shayna, that is the literal translation. Otherwise it is referred to as the Portal. Would you like to see it?”

My upper lip curls. “Why?”

“Because it was the subject of Angela’s doctoral dissertation. She was studying urban planning of the twelfth century and the catacombs’ role in World War II.”

He maintains a blank face, but I hear his irritation. Perhaps frustration that I don’t fully believe him. “Let me guess,” I say, “the Nazis named it the Gate to Hell during the Occupation?”

“No, they did other things down there.” He cracks a smile. “How about tomorrow?”

Courtesy might suggest I laugh off my initial suspicion and change the subject to persuade him everything is fine. Instead I continue analyzing the thick border drawn around each Thursday. If he’s offering up a tour of Angela’s thesis subject, who am I to refuse? “Sure,” I finally say. The better I understand this Paris version of my sister, the better chance I have of solving her dry-erase Rubik’s cube. Even as the hope that she simply ditched Seb and went to Florence lingers.

When I look up, Seb has pressed his lips into a straight line. He folds his arms across his chest. “Angela did not tell you anything about me, did she?”

I look to the safety of the window behind him. “Not a thing.”

“Shayna, I am not perfect.” He sighs and lowers his gaze, like it’s some big revelation. “But I loved your sister, and I am trying to help. I have already spoken to Inspector Valentin and his department multiple times. Angela was my only family, too.”

My hackles rise—I am annoyed he would compare our family situation to his. He’s probably estranged from his father or in a fight with a cousin. “Oh really?”

“Yes. My older brother and I were raised by my grandparents, who died when I had twenty. Baptiste died in Afghanistan four years ago, fighting with the French armed forces. Baptiste was my sanity, then Angela became my world.”

I stare at him, at his earnest expression and the pain drawing his mouth, trying to reconcile my willingness to believe him with the whiteboard’s message beside him. Trust no one. His eyes become glassy, fixating on the floor. A large finger reaches up to dab away tears while I struggle to choose a side.