For better or worse, ever since I pretended to be you for the eighth-grade presentations that rocketed you to the best science classes, you have always been Mom and Dad’s favorite. In turn, after that massive favor, you harped on my mood swings—said they made you feel unstable or threatened or whatever as kids—but think about what you’re doing to us now. What you’ve done. You know this last thing is what they would have wanted. Us working together again, finally, to find a compromise here. Us being the powerful duo they always said we would be. Don’t be so proud or so blind to your narcissism that you can’t see you’re still acting the favorite. Even when you don’t deserve that title anymore.

Think of someone other than yourself, Shayna Astrid. Otherwise, I don’t know how we can continue.

Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Inside the Sorbonne’s courtyard, large cobblestones stretch from the immense domed chapel to the Legal Sciences wing—all pillars and Greek influence—uninterrupted but for a large fountain in the middle. The sun dips on its downward trajectory now in late afternoon, and shadows climb the opposite stone walls like in a Charlton Heston film.

One good thing to come out of Valentin’s visit: a checklist. Now I know exactly where Angela went in the days prior to her initial disappearance. On Friday, the twenty-ninth, she was at the Sorbonne. On Thursday she only left her apartment to perform dissertation work and to go to dinner at Les Deux Moulins with Bronn. On Wednesday she visited Emmanuelle Wood, and Tuesday she was seen on the Champs-Élysées. I can unofficially stalk my sister much in the way her abductor might have. Finally having an outline of a plan is a relief after the last several days of bumbling about wearing my sister’s face, practically baiting someone to finish what they started; they call me the type-A twin for a reason.

I head straight for the humanities department, dodging clumps of students and a man handing out leaflets in the courtyard. Delphine Rousseau’s assertive voice travels from her office on the second floor to the lobby, but I circle the scuffed tile below. Another Divine Research–style sign is unlikely to be here on campus, but it was damn near a unicorn to begin with. A pass at the baseboards and the ceiling molding confirms my disappointment—not even a trace of ambiguous graffiti to misinterpret. Polished benches and lacquered stairwell balustrades lining the walls could be featured in museums; their sheen glints in the sunlight cascading through the latticed glass panels forming the ceiling. Students casually lie on the benches, studying or taking afternoon naps.