The floorboard beneath me creaks. She snaps her head up. She’s young and beautiful, and at first glance the bustier she wears might suggest a wife titillating her husband. Then she shifts forward into the light of the single lamp, and dark roots blend into shabbily bleached hair, revealing an ache in her expression and accentuating circles under haunted eyes. She rises with purpose, walking to the door slow enough to make my heart pound in my chest—then slams it shut in my face.

Emmanuelle?

Panicked, I scan for the apartment number and realize she’s a neighbor. The neighbor? The one who saw Angela enter Manu’s apartment? Before I think better of it, I knock on the door. No answer. I knock again. “Bonjour?”

Movement is audible inside, but I can’t tell if she’s still sitting at the table counting money or has disappeared into a back bedroom to ignore me. I try again—“Hello?” There are at least a dozen residents in this building, and any one of them could have reported Angela’s visit.

I move down the hall to Manu’s apartment. Blood pounds in my ears. “Bonjour?” I tap my knuckles against the door. It falls open. “Emmanuelle?”

Inside, the tidy front room, devoid of electronics and clutter, could belong to a middle-aged woman instead of an early-twenties college student. Shoes are lined up neatly in a row beside the door, and an orange, knit blanket is folded artfully on a modest love seat, one section peeled over like unfinished origami. A pile of magazines on an end table is squared up along each edge. The dead bolt dangles from the door as though someone kicked it in from the outside.

A punch of sharp air hits my nose, churning my stomach. Something rancid was forgotten here. Dishes are piled in the sink, and I turn in the opposite direction if only to get away from the stench. The bedroom resembles a San Francisco apartment, no bigger than a shoebox. Photos blanket every flat surface from the dresser to a bulletin board. A young, heavyset woman with curly waves of hair, a stern nose, and a small chin smiles in most photos or pouts with girlfriends. Photo after photo shows a girl full of life, happiness, and deep thoughts. Pensive, artistic photos of her facing away in desert landscapes have the prized location on a shelf facing the made bed, crisp corners tucked in army-style. As though she would see these last before falling asleep at night.

I scan the space, searching for an indication that Manu is alive and safe—maybe a receipt from yesterday’s lunch. Some hint to clear Angela’s name so Valentin can focus on my sister as the victim again.