“Shayna? It’s Jean-Luc.” His voice carries through the door, right on time. I straighten my dress and scan the room for my messenger bag. After sending an email to the address I found for Dr. Charles Leroux, requesting to speak to him, I fell down a rabbit hole of Angela’s browser history; zero progress was made on packing or organizing, again. All of Angela’s research papers, including the rough draft of her dissertation that she was working on when she disappeared, line the floor. The different rooms discovered in the catacombs seem to have fascinated her. She mentions a room filled with fibulae, a room devoted to soldiers, judging from the many bone fractures, and—creepiest of all—a room full of twins, if modern DNA tests are to be trusted. She even cataloged the twin skulls, noting fifteen pairs and five skulls without a match. I grab my notes and a bottle of water, then step out into the hall.

“Bonjour,” Jean-Luc says. French pop plays from the apartment below us, blaring on a Wednesday morning. Jean-Luc mouths the lyrics along to the music. Serons-nous détestables? The distressed jeans and graphic tee that reads in English RANGE FREE (I don’t know whether the irony is intended) could be an outfit from the album cover of a brooding band—Parisian hipster chic. For once, he’s not wearing purple.

“You seem very French today.” He points to my crisscrossed sandals. “Or Roman.”

“Yeah, with this heat wave, I started wearing Angela’s clothing. All mine is doused in sweat.”

Jean-Luc offers a slow nod in response. I pass him and head down the stairs, Angela’s sundress billowing with each step. He follows, keeping a few feet more between us than yesterday. While being too open in thinking like Angela has had its downfalls—and I do want to quell any idea of flirtation before it begins—the need for clean clothing is real during these extra days abroad.

We cross the street, scattering a horde of pigeons into flight. Jean-Luc watches me from the corner of his eye. “What’s our destination?” he asks.

“A restaurant I found: Les Deux Moulins.” Last night I punched the Divine Research coordinates into a search engine. It took a few tries, but I found a combination that made sense: 48° 53′ 5.75″ N, 2° 20′ 1″ E—global coordinates to a restaurant that served as the chief location for one of Angela’s favorite movies. She was obsessed with Amélie in high school, and by the end of senior year, she no longer used the subtitles; she understood it perfectly in French.

Jean-Luc’s elbow brushes mine as we walk. His knapsack grazes my hip, and I take a conscious step out and away.