I pause, my hand on the doorknob. Once, in high school, I borrowed Angela’s red skirt to wear to an interview—to pop among the applicants—despite her texting, Do not borrow it. Sibling relationship be damned, when she discovered this, she was livid I’d disrespected her boundaries. She’d explicitly told me not to do something, and I did it even so. She was always insistent that when she said something, she meant it.

Knowing this, I wonder if I need to take her words on the whiteboard at their most literal sense—to trust no one. Not even figures of authority or morgue directors.

Park uncrosses his arms when I emerge with a sniffle. I fix him with a grieving stare, then spit out the words before I can falter. “This is my sister. It’s Angela.”

His eyes reduce to slits. “How you are sure?” His tone is cold, detached.

My hands fidget at my sides. I cast about for the right words, not sure of the answer in any language. Angela would have known that one of the first things on my list would be to come and see for myself she was dead—after identifying our parents’ bodies, there’s no way I would have swept aside this moment for closure.

And she left two notes meant only for me; she wouldn’t want me to divulge anything I learned here, especially on official paper. Right?

I draw another finger below my lashes. “I’m sure. Can I sign now?”

Park remains unmoved. His mouth purses. The hallway’s sterile lighting magnifies the throbbing in my head. “Monsieur?” I say.

“Miss Darby, this body is like balloon. The body . . . was shot after death. The tattoo was . . . appliqué . . . after death. How you are sure?”

I stare at him, my fake confidence rattled. Valentin never suggested the tattoo or the gunshot were made postmortem. Why would someone tattoo and shoot a body after it’s already dead? And why didn’t Valentin tell me? Was he trying to trap me in a lie?

The certainty I felt minutes ago is gone, sucked up into the ventilation system, but I can’t see any way to deviate from the course I’ve chosen. For whatever reason, Angela hasn’t revealed to the police that she’s alive. I need to know why. “I’m sure. It’s Angela.”

The director throws his hands up and bounce-walks away. We pass through the double doors, back into the cool lighting and into his office. With quick strides, he rounds the desk to grasp a folder, then thrusts it into my hands. I open it. Identification du corps is written across the top of the first sheet. Several paragraphs of French precede a space for witnesses to confirm or refute the identification of a body. Sebastien Bronn signed his declaration July 9, two weeks ago.

“You understand what you are sign?” Hooded eyes twitch at each corner.