This nonchalant intersection of modernity and history seems so Angela—the integration of cell phones Snapchatting images of the fountain sculpture, as easy and obvious as passing the Eiffel Tower on a daily commute. Certain statues were made in honor of real people who walked these grounds at one point, according to a few plaques; students send text messages beneath them in the narrow shade. Sadness slows my steps as I recognize how my sister traveled six thousand miles to find her proverbial tribe, before a comforting thought replaces it: my sister was happy here.

Across the plaza, author Victor Hugo guards the entrance to the library. My heart beats faster with each step closer to the site of Angela’s disappearance. According to Valentin, she came here that Friday doing something. Checking out a book? No one knows what, exactly. Witnesses say she was walking the many aisles when the shooting occurred. I did an internet search on whether school shootings were as common in France as they are in the United States and discovered highly regulated French gun laws, consistent with Nour’s commentary. Everything I found on French news websites and then translated via Google made a point of saying how surprising the shooting was, considering universities are respected throughout the country, if not necessarily revered. The shooter himself was high on a few substances and cited difficulties with his peers, as well as recent indoctrination by the Red Brothers. Armed guards on campus fired shots before he took his own life. The chaos of hundreds of students running to safety made the aftermath hard to track. Angela was last seen in the library.

Rows of tables with generic desk lamps greet the eye upon entry. A normal scene, excepting the destruction opposite: panes of glass are completely missing. Yellow tape, with the words ZONE INTERDITE—prohibited zone—repeated over and over protects the closest walkway area in a three-foot arc. Shards no longer line the floor after three weeks, but a clear plastic tarp covers the section of glass still needing to be replaced.

In spite of expecting it—of being surprised I didn’t see anything earlier—the visual of the moment’s violence is stunning. Was this the moment of the shooter’s death or before? Did he spend time here, did he care about these aisles of books, or did he run here by accident?

My fists clench. I pass along the side aisle, imagining my sister studying with exchange students and French students, commingling with all, unaware that anyone could want to harm her. Maybe the shooter didn’t target her, but he did other students and faculty. And his actions ultimately gave someone the opportunity to snatch her. The thought squeezes my chest when I reach the tall columns of the archaeology aisle. I withdraw several books from a shelf, waiting for a title or cover to leap out as the one Angela needed—the catalyst to this whole disaster.