“What is the issue? The exchange program office is downstairs.” She glares at us. Graying brown hair kinks into a natural sphere and is the only indication of her age. Red-framed glasses drape from a chain around her neck and contrast with the black silk blouse she wears. A white coffee mug trembles in her hand. I nod at Jean-Luc. If he’s here, he can take point.

“Bonjour, madame.” Jean-Luc says something, then mentions Delphine Rousseau.

“That’s me.” She fumbles putting glasses to her face. Slanted eyes widen as she takes me in. “Oh merde, Angela.” She jerks backward, and coffee splashes the wall.

“No, I’m Shayna—Angela’s sister?”

She clutches her chest. “Goodness. I had no idea Angela had a twin. Hello . . . Shayna.”

My heart deadens, just an ounce, hearing Delphine’s response. Past tense. The phrasing I’ll never get used to. “Would you be willing to speak to us? I’d like to learn more about my sister’s academics.”

Delphine unlocks the door of a small office. She says something to the janitor that appeases the angry expression on his face. He mumbles something else, then wipes up the dripping coffee.

“Let’s step inside.” Delphine leads us into a stunted room, dominated by a window the length of the wall. A modest metal desk is covered in stacks of papers, accordion-style folders, foam stress balls, and framed photos. Lush greenery of the courtyard below and a bakery beyond the campus perimeter are visible from our location on the second floor. Students lounge at the base of a stone stage connected to a building, some reading books and most engrossed in their phones. Delphine hangs a leather satchel on one of the brass hooks lining the wall. She sits down in an ergonomically correct mesh chair, then folds her hands on the desk.

“I must apologize for Gérard. He thought that you were reporters.”

“The shooting was three weeks ago. I would think the reporters would be on to other events by now.” I sit opposite Delphine in a cushioned folding chair.

Delphine exchanges a look with Jean-Luc, beside me. Nour’s scolding voice returns to mind. This is not like in the United States, a school shooting every month.

“What can I do for you two? I’m very sorry Angela remains missing.” She allows her sight line to fall to the stress balls, as though giving me the space to fall apart or collect myself. (As if I had the time to do either.)

“Thank you. I’ve been reading Angela’s dissertation notes and was hoping you could provide more insight. How did she come to the catacombs as her subject? Did you see her the day she disappeared?”