I nibble on a hard crostini from the woven bowl on the table. The one clue I managed to find that seemed plausible—the numbers in the blog entry—led to a fast food joint. The mysterious number fifty-eight? Just a restaurant she probably visited with Seb. The catacombs visit was helpful in seeing what Angela devoted herself to, but there were no hints as to her traumatic last steps. Still, visiting Nour seems like a reach. Does one party with Angela a year ago make Nour a high-priority lead, especially with time running out before my flight? I open my mouth to dismiss Seb’s suggestion, then remember his devastated expression in the catacombs and check the urge. He just wants to know what happened to the woman he loved.

Be nice. Be open. Be more like Angela, I tell myself. Pragmatic can still be nice.

Seb peruses the menu, oblivious to my mental tug-of-war. “Are you hungry?”

My stomach gurgles. “Starved.”

“Angela always liked the salads here. Maybe you should try one.”

Heat spreads across my cheeks. “Are you entertaining the idea that I’m my sister right now?” I aim for matter-of-fact, but my words sound flirtatious. He thinks she’s gone. How can he not want to believe I’m Angela?

This is crazy. And messed up on so many levels. I should have suggested McDonald’s.

Seb pauses to reflect. “Words cannot express how I miss her. When I first met you, I thought your resemblance was incredible. Now I’m beginning to believe two women could not be more different. Where one is analytical, the other breathes artistry. Monsieur?” He stops the nearest waiter. “Deux Calvados, s’il vous plaît.”

“Calvados?” I ask.

“A regional brandy from up north. Normandy. Angela loved it—it’s an aperitif. Traditional before the main course.” He speaks with energy, sounding almost Italian in the way his words string together. Round ears stick out against the close cut of his hair, like a little boy who hasn’t grown into them yet.

The server sets down two miniature vases of liquid before I can reply. “I’m good, really.”

Seb shrugs. “I understand. I hope you don’t feel I am pressuring you. This is merely a French lunch.” He offers a small smile.

Raising my glass of water, I say, “To thinking like Angela. And finding her attacker.”

“Santé.” Seb clinks my glass with his. We discuss our only thing in common: Angela. Her time in Paris has been productive—earning honors at the Sorbonne, making friends, taking up half marathons, discovering new restaurants. Each time Seb volunteers some detail about my sister I’m unaware of, a pang of guilt then regret stabs my ribs. We move on to discussing travel and places we’d like to visit. Seb says something that doesn’t translate well.