“Who’s there?” a woman calls in French from behind a thick metal door with no peephole.

“It’s Shayna. Angela’s sister.” Footsteps approach. The chain is lifted, and the dead bolt slides back. Frizzy black curls with pink tips emerge from the apartment, creating a pastel halo framing a round face. Slanted sunlight penetrates the gauzy curtain of a window behind, dilating my pupils from the dark hallway.

“Nour?” My vision adjusts, and the young woman inhales a sharp breath.

“Angèle.” She grabs me by the shoulders. “Holy fuck, you’re alive!” She yanks me into an embrace. Her sharp chin quivers against my collarbone. “Oh my God, I was so worried.”

“No, I’m not . . . ,” I mumble. “I’m . . . Shayna, Angela’s twin.”

The young woman’s grip lessens. She pulls back to examine me with wide brown eyes. Understanding melts the happiness from her face. “Merde.”

A man steps out from the kitchen to give a low whistle. Is he Nour? The apartment is dim—a television shows a paused movie—but they could be cousins, for all their shared traits: wavy black hair, dark eyes, and lean builds. There’s a large mole on the man’s cheek, and, when he smiles, a front tooth is chipped like he once lost a fight. He says something in French that makes the woman shoot him a dagger glare.

Please, God, let one of them be Nour.

She rubs her eyes. Her accented English lingers between us, and I relax a little knowing we can communicate. Fuchsia hair dye contrasts and embellishes the brightness of an emerald stud piercing her left nostril. A spandex leotard dips low on her chest while pockets of skin at her hips peek from sagging jeans. Her bright-red lips pucker to the side. “You are the sister of Angela. Is that Angela’s . . . hoodie?”

I smile. She knows my sister well enough to know her wardrobe and probably a few of her habits. Jackpot. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. I only had an address.”

We stand awkwardly, digesting my anticlimactic entrance.

“Pas de problème, chérie.” The man steps forward. “I am Hugo, a friend of Nour.” He lifts his hand in hello. His head tilts to the side, appraising me with charcoal-rimmed eyes.

Nour remains rooted to the spot. “How can I help you?” She crosses her arms beneath her chest, though her voice softens. “I imagine you’re looking for her.”