I’d gotten off easy, in retrospect. Her retribution would come later, when I was most vulnerable, but in that moment I was only pleased I could spend more time with the doll.

I let my head relax against the cracked leather seat of the taxi and drum an aimless rhythm on the middle armrest. A mini television mounted on the back of the passenger seat blares a human-interest piece on smugglers tattooing their victims.

Rummaging through Angela’s files turned up only what I’d noticed before—class essays, notes, bills, and e-receipts. Her agenda seems to be the only useful clue to her whereabouts. I withdraw it from my bag and flip to last August. Nour’s address is clearly written in my sister’s cursive, the last letter ending in a curlicue. I unlock my phone to text a reply to Seb.

Headache. Talk later.

As soon as I click my phone to black, it begins ringing. Really?

“Yes?”

Pause. “Miss Darby, this is Jean-Luc Fillion. Is this a bad time?”

The embassy liaison. “Oh. I mean, no, now is fine. What can I do for you? I don’t have any bitch work today.” I’m smiling, but I don’t think it’s audible.

Jean-Luc gives a polite laugh. Ha-ha. Not enthusiastic but not offended. “Just wanted to follow up and see how your visit was going,” he says. “You’re flying out this evening, right? I’m still happy to help in any way until then.”

“If I need something, I’ll reach out. Thank you.” I hang up, dismissing the urge to beg him to come with me to Nour’s. Although Seb is suddenly a world of confusion—revulsion—for me, I shouldn’t dismiss his idea to visit her/him. There’s no time left for wavering. To borrow from one of Angela’s favorite figures in history, Winston Churchill—if you’re going through hell, keep going.

I don’t have another option.

A six-story yellow apartment building rises from the suburbs of Saint Denis, on the outskirts of Paris’s sports stadium. A trio of garbage cans lines the street, stuffed to the brim with plastic bags and cardboard. Something deep-fried wafts from a kitchen nearby, and saliva pools in my mouth. A deflated soccer ball lies in the gutter, covered in grime. I glance at Angela’s planner again.

Nour. Apartment 23, Rue de Mignon, Saint Denis.

White tile peeks through the building’s open doorway, the door handle dangling loose by a single screw. I hesitate, noting the empty street parking, make sure no one has followed me, then step inside. Plaster, metal, and concrete flooring decorate the scene. Eggshell paint adds to the vacuumed, prototypic atmosphere.

French rap carries from farther within as I climb the stained, carpeted steps to the fifth floor. The darkness of the stairwell gives me pause on the landing, but I press on.