“Actually, I’m . . .” Nour’s face drops, and I recall the feeling of expecting the earth to crack open and swallow you whole, of standing on the anxious precipice, waiting for the terrible blow. Not knowing whether Angela is alive. Valentin’s throaty voice edges forward from my memory: Rumors have leaked to the media that an American has been missing since the shooting, and we are trying to contain this information before releasing a statement. A family member’s identification will push the American government to provide dental and medical records more quickly.

I don’t blame Nour for holding out hope. Even as there’s no way I can let on the true levels of batshit crazy reality has become. Taking a cue from the police, until I’m certain Angela is dead or alive, I’ll have to maintain the status quo. Adopting a tense expression appropriate to discussing a missing sister, I resume. “I’m trying to learn more about her time here in Paris. Can you help me with that?”

Nour stares at me, her brows stitched tight. Where seconds ago she exuded a fierce strength beyond her small frame, now she appears childlike, full of questions and also deep sadness. “What was your name again?”

“Shayna.”

She releases a breath. “Happy to help, Shayna. Anything to drink?”

“A glass of water, please. Paris is hotter than I expected.”

Away from the confined quarters of the city center, Nour’s studio apartment is spacious, if cluttered with yellow bags and clothing. Twice the size of Angela’s, the layout extends like a suite, with three massive windows overlooking the modest neighborhood below. A pair of boys throws a rugby ball in the street.

“Please excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting . . . well, anyone apart from Hugo.” Nour grabs me a mini water bottle from the fridge and opens one herself. She leans against the counter and resumes her assessment of me in between swigs. “Has there been any progress on Angela’s case? She’s been missing since late June.”

“Not much. Has she been talked about in the news?”

“The media says she’s the only person still unaccounted for from the day of the shooting. We’ve all just been waiting and praying.” Nour hugs herself. Hugo wraps an arm around her.

“Did you know Angela, too?”

“No. Never met her.” He offers a tight-lipped smile.

I take a sip of water. “I found your name, Nour, in Angela’s old agenda. I was wondering if you could tell me what her life was like the last few years. Did you spend a lot of time with her?”

Nour hesitates before replying. She gazes at me. “C’est bizarre . . . The only way I know you’re not Angela is she would have tried to flirt with Hugo already.”

Hugo scrunches his nose.