If Manu really is missing, she won’t mind that I took her picture frame. I just need something to vindicate Angela—maybe a recent note from her to Manu with a #BFF in the postscript. Anything to prove my sister couldn’t actually have a role in making another person disappear.

Jean-Luc is right. I shouldn’t be trusted.

My belly growls. I have half a mind to dig around Manu’s pantry but for the overwhelming stench of molding cheese. No. Something more substantial, heavier. A weightier stench that pricks my eyes the closer I get to the kitchen. My stomach seizes as I pass the front door. On the dishes in the sink, I can see rotting leftover dinner—cabbage, half-eaten beefsteak, and peas so shriveled they could replace BB gun ammunition cling to the plates. The closer I creep, the more crushing the odor becomes in the unventilated apartment, and I cover my mouth, bile threatening to climb my throat. Still, dirty dishes don’t seem like enough to account for the smell. With forefinger and thumb, I move a few plates here and there, checking under each for the culprit, when a new stench reaches my nostrils. From beneath the counter.

I step away from the closed cabinet below the sink. My heart pounds, louder than the neighbor’s bass. A new wave of nausea clenches my stomach. It could be a garbage can or expired food stuck in the disposal.

Used diapers, though I didn’t see any sign of children.

A dead rat.

My hand shakes, reaching for the handle as I mentally try to place the odor. I bite the inside of my cheek, wishing Jean-Luc had stayed. When were the police here last? I tug on the handle, only the cabinet won’t open. I tug again. It’s stuck. I pull harder and brace a foot against the other door.

The cabinet falls open. Discolored flesh highlights black veins that spider along an arm, a leg, a naked body bunched and folded at the hips to fit into the cubed space. Glitter nail polish shines in perfect condition on hands folded across the chest. Black hair hangs forward, covering the face. My eyes shoot to the door, but it’s still closed, trapping us in here together.

Hysteria claws my chest, building into a scream, but I clap both hands over my mouth. Valentin’s accented English echoes in my ears. Neighbors. Series murderer. A keepsake bracelet dangles from the body’s wrist, little symbols extending from the main chain. The Eiffel Tower. A heart. A dog. A boy and girl holding hands.

Counting to ten does little to calm my heart rate but allows me to watch the arm, alternately hoping it moves and that it doesn’t. The fingers don’t twitch. I don’t touch anything, but I toe the cabinet door open a bit farther to see inside. Black rings circle each ankle. Ligature marks.