I withdraw my cell phone from my handbag, then click through my notes to find the one where I wrote down the information from Angela’s blog. Maybe Seb can cast some light on my discovery while I practice extracting info. “A number with the words divine and research above it. Does this mean anything to you?”

Seb examines my phone screen, zooming in and out with his fingers. “There are eleven digits—ten, if the zero is not relevant.” He whips out his own phone and dials, placing it on speaker.

“Bonjour, Maison de Kebab,” says someone on the other end. Rock music with French lyrics blasts from the small device. From the front compartment, our cab driver turns his radio up.

“Hmm. Why do you think a kebab restaurant is significant?” Seb ends the call, looking to me for an answer.

Angela leading me to a Turkish sandwich shop makes about as much sense as if I told her to go to the butcher—we haven’t eaten meat in years. I shake my head, trying to recover the certainty I had last night—that this message must be something real and useful.

“I don’t know. It just seemed like . . . the message was meant for me, or something. I found it on her computer.”

Seb lifts an eyebrow. “And Angela said she was the spiritual sister.”

I place my phone back in my bag, next to Angela’s agenda. He leans in. “You brought your passport? If someone steals it, you will be delayed in returning home. The American embassy will take days to issue a new one.”

“And lose it in the madness of Angela’s apartment?” The place was a sea of upturned boxes and crates when Seb left last night. He doesn’t even know I kept going. “No way. Better to have it on me.”

Seb shrugs. “As you wish.”

Small boutique shops and restaurants line the roundabout of the Denfert Rochereau metro stop. Trees extend to claim their territory from sidewalk plots, while baby strollers group together beneath chatty mothers.

We step from the car to the curb, and Seb faces a small house. “Welcome to the catacombs.” Reverence fills his voice, making it breathy. Not a house—a toolshed painted dark green. Attached to it is an imposing stone building, which in my California frame of reference I had assumed was the tourist attraction—not some rickety structure that looks like a gust of wind might take it down.

“Oh” is all I manage.

Seb gives a wistful sigh. “The catacombs are five stories deep and eleven thousand square meters in surface area. There are six million Parisians buried below, spanning seven centuries and two hundred miles.” His eyes shimmer in the morning sun. “Shall we?”