Jean-Luc clears his throat. “Do you think someone targeted Angela because of this envy, or because of her research?”

“Like Emmanuelle Wood,” I add, remembering Nour’s pinched expression.

Delphine shakes her head. “Emmanuelle was a student in the history department, if I am not wrong. I have not seen her in weeks, but our paths rarely crossed.”

Jean-Luc sits at the edge of his chair. “Is there a way to get Angela’s school schedule? The classes she chose for this next semester could offer some insight.”

As Delphine escorts us to the registrar’s office to request a printout, I wonder whether this Manu might be the best authority on Angela’s life the last year, given her light stalking.

Valentin’s words return from days ago in his office. It might be a woman.

We thank Delphine, then exit the building into the courtyard. Topiaries line the walkway out to the street, our very own farewell committee. The words Delphine spoke about Angela continue to resonate: Less present. Impressive. Obsessed. Distracted. There was a drastic change in Angela’s persona over the last several years—that much is apparent. Before she moved an ocean away from me, her behavior was erratic and emotional but never withdrawn or obvious in public. Was she distracted because she was being harassed or because, like Delphine thinks, Angela was research obsessed? The more I learn, the clearer it is Paris changed my sister in ways I didn’t expect. She was better here. It pains me to say it, but away from us, from family, she seems to have been happier, overall. Balanced in a way that she never was at home.

“Where to next?” Jean-Luc pauses beside me at the campus’s edge. Only a few bouquets of flowers remain of the piles of cellophane and ribbon I saw when I first searched for images of the Sorbonne—memorial offerings left by mourners. Square pieces of orange paper mingle with the small collection and advertise discounted sandwiches for students.

I raise an arm and hail a black SUV cab coming toward us. “Are you going to keep asking questions?”

Jean-Luc snorts, then follows me into the back seat. We head home to Montmartre, fighting traffic the whole way. Jean-Luc asks about Emmanuelle, about her relationship with Angela, but I sidestep answering each time. Rule abider that I am—finally—I’m following Angela’s instructions not to trust anyone.

When Jean-Luc turns to the window, I whip my phone out to text Valentin. It feels weird texting a detective, but each minute counts this week, and I can’t go see him with my guide in tow.

Staying till Sunday, need time to pack up the apartment. What do you know about Emmanuelle Wood? She may have had a grudge against Angela—E was stalking A.

Valentin texts back almost immediately: