One lacquered wooden frame sits in the middle of the dresser top, plain and unique among the other sparkly frames, protecting a picture of Emmanuelle and an attractive man. Their cheeks press lovingly against one another, rich skin glowing in the sunlight behind the camera. Stubble lines his jaw, while his green-gray eyes carry a weight absent from Emmanuelle’s. Dimples dot each cheek, and a curl of black hair hangs above one eye. I grab the photo and examine it up close. He’s the same guy in Angela’s photo. The one I found that first day with Seb, searching through boxes. Is this Emmanuelle’s boyfriend? Did Angela steal her boyfriend?

A floorboard moans in the hall. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and I hold my breath, straining to hear movement. Sliding the frame into my handbag, I peek into the living room.

“Shayna?” Jean-Luc nudges the door open. Techno music begins to blast from the apartment across the hall, with the lyrics screamed at the top of the singer’s lungs.

“Hey, Sherlock. Come on in.”

He closes the door, shutting out some of the noise. He pauses beside the broken lock. “Whose apartment is this?”

“Angela’s friend. This morning I knocked on your door, but you weren’t there.”

Jean-Luc pinches his nose, coming too close to the kitchen. “Yeah, I had an early meeting at the office. Bitch work is required at all hours.” He steps back, examining the faded couch and patchwork throw pillows. A pile of mail is stacked on the kitchen counter. “What are we doing here, Shayna?”

I shush him with a finger, and his eyes nearly bug out of his head. “I’ll be quick,” I whisper. “I’m looking for something. Take a seat if you want.”

Although his cheeks begin to burn red, looping Jean-Luc or anyone else into details is not part of my plan. And if I’m honest, that hasn’t been my mode of operation for years. That’s probably why no one has contacted me, worried or concerned when I disappeared from San Diego and didn’t tell anyone—not even my aunts. I know Jean-Luc could get in trouble, but I’m all selfishness this week. And I learned my lesson against getting too close to Frenchmen on Monday.

Jean-Luc spreads his hands. He hasn’t moved from beside the doorway. “Shouldn’t we say hi at another time when she’s home? I don’t like this. Seriously.” His gaze darts around the room like he’s afraid the love seat cushions will come to life. “What are you looking for, exactly?”

I adopt an innocent expression, all wide eyes and parted lips. “A photo of Angela and her friend. Or something that might look good at the memorial for Angela.”