I pause before a commanding archway to soak in the morning sunlight, to feel connected to something I recognize all the way over on this continent. While Angela was nocturnal, I’ve always been a morning person. It’s strange to be here without her. Part of me envisioned finally visiting her in a few years, after medical school, with a husband, maybe a baby—when I could be fully armed against any anger she might lob my way, when I had everything I’d set out to achieve, despite the cost to us both. My husband would take care of the baby while I worked in oncology research. He’d keep the home tidy and have a cheese plate ready when I arrived home, followed by dinner at seven o’clock. The perfect househusband to make me believe I might deserve our little corner of happiness.

Carved designs decorate the bronze door nestled within the arch. A simple cross, couched in an alcove above, sits atop a Latin inscription that probably reads, tongue in cheek, Dead men tell no tales. I stare at the great brick building that is the Paris morgue, wondering whether the answers to my questions about Angela lie inside.

Last night I searched through every desktop folder and bookmarked website on her laptop a second time in the event I’d missed another message. I clicked through all of her torrent files and haphazardly explored a code-source editor program I didn’t understand. I gave packing another go but only got as far as one box of clothing and beer steins. I couldn’t do more. Not before seeing for myself that Angela is the body pulled from the river.

Divine Research. What did she mean? Divine as in guess? Guess her research? Guess the meaning of her research? Or are they two separate words, bearing two separate instructions? The possible combinations—together or separate—as nouns, verbs, or adjectives, are endless.

Divine: Guess, determine. Holy, transcendent.

Research: Investigate, probe. Analysis, inquiry.

The time stamp on Angela’s blog post read June 1, 2014, the end of our junior year of college. However, the author can choose the date that displays on the post; just because it said Published on June 1 doesn’t mean it was. Those eleven digits might not mean anything at all.

Around three in the morning, I fell asleep imagining what my world would be like six hours later. What kind of truth I would learn only fourteen steps away from where I stand now.

She must be inside this building.

She can’t be inside this building.

My phone buzzes, interrupting my exercise in the Schrödinger’s cat paradox. Inspector Valentin’s name scrolls across my screen, a bad sign. He should already be here.

“Good morning, Miss Darby. I must apologize, but I cannot attend you at the morgue.”

“What? Why not?”