If ever you feel like talking, dear sister, just close your eyes and reach out for me (cue hippie-dippie)—emotionally, mentally, spiritually extend to me, and I will be there. The ancient religions called it “divining with God on a higher plane.” We’ve been doing that with one another since diapers, and there’s no reason to stop now.

I’ll keep writing to you even if you don’t respond for a while. You’ll probably go to your quiet place and digest all of this info, per usual. I’m grabbing a drink with Hans, but later I’ll be around if you want to Skype.

Also, def let me know how your exam went. I know that class was a bitch last quarter.

Twin for the win,

Angela Sophia

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

My feet take me outside, down the morgue steps, on autopilot. My mind is in a thousand places. I’ll go to the police station now and hope Valentin isn’t already in the field, ask him questions, pose them in a way so he doesn’t suspect anything. Then go home and tear Angela’s place apart.

“Shayna? Hello?” Seb, standing off to the side of the building, waves a hand. In his short-sleeved blue shirt and dark-wash jeans, he blends in with the crowds making their way to work or the dozen museums nearby; I walked right past him.

“Oh, hey. What are you doing here?” There are no cabs on this side street. Weren’t there a dozen an hour ago? I scan the next road over, visible through the row of manicured trees.

Seb lifts his eyebrows. “I am here to meet you. We are going to the catacombs still, yes?”

“Yeah. Yes. Listen, now isn’t a good time.”

He observes me, registering the shadows on my face, as if he knows I’ve lost five pounds in the last week and failed to rest well my first night in Paris. As if he knows something surprised me inside the building behind us.

“You do remember, yes?” His forehead creases. “I did not want you to be alone after identifying . . . the body.” His eyes drop, and we both look away—him because he still believes Angela’s dead, and me because if I look him in the eye one second longer, he will know the truth.

Should I tell him? Wouldn’t I want to know? “I remember, yes. It’s . . . That was an experience inside. I’m still processing what I saw.”

He nods. “I understand. I am here because when I had to see her . . . I was alone afterward, and it was very hard. I did not want that for you.” The pain in his voice makes me look up again. The knowing sympathy he wears knocks against the internal walls I built inside that Conservation room.