Seb plants himself on the wooden boards of a park bench. He pulls me into his lap. “Who?”

“Whoa, hey—” Up close, creases mark the corners of his eyes—dark-blue spheres, rich in color. I’m suddenly more aware than I was even in the restaurant that he’s the kind of guy—scientific, serious—that I would usually fall for, not Angela. And is there a part of me—a small part—that would feel satisfaction if he chose me over Angela, or at least his memories of her?

I stand, almost as if to distance myself from my thoughts, but he pulls me back. Seb says something in French that sounds amused, and the sweet scent of Calvados reaches my nose. The fabric of his cargo shorts is bumpy against my thin leggings.

“We didn’t find anything this morning,” I whisper, conscious of how close our faces are. His palms are warm on my arms. “We’re no closer to discovering how or why she disappeared or . . .” Tears fill my eyes, betraying the careful stoicism I’ve been wearing in public.

Large thumbs caress my cheeks. Seb whispers in a soothing tone, “Je suis là, ma belle.”

The poetic sound distracts me as he pulls me to his lips. What starts out as a soft kiss deepens, becomes a passionate embrace; in the background, a street performer with an accordion plays a haunting song, and I lose myself for a moment. How long has it been since I’ve connected with someone? After my parents died, I collapsed, isolating myself in my childhood home, unable, until recently, to muster the enthusiasm to continue pursuing medical school, set adrift even from my own sister, who’d lashed out at me. I’ve been craving connection with someone even if my practical side has never acknowledged it.

His tongue forces my mouth open and explores me, one palm gripping my neck, the other clutching my hip. Greedy kisses penetrate my skin, sending a tremor to my thighs. My back arches, and he moans into my neck, “Mon Angèle.”

I gasp. All of a sudden his taste is sharp, cloying. I pull away, registering only that Seb’s wide eyes mirror my horror.

Down the street I run, faster, like the thief I am. Running like I just kissed my dead sister’s boyfriend. At the river’s edge, I slow to a walk, and the noise of Parisian rush hour drowns my sobs along the boulevard. I force myself to travel a mile on foot before grabbing a cab, to drown my thoughts in honking horns, loud radios, and the conversations of people meandering past.

Despite my effort to forget them—to pretend they were something less devastating—Sebastien’s mumbled words in French remain clear.

My Angela.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Day 3, Tuesday