My belly contracts, and I heave, the croissant I ate for breakfast splattering across the floor, amplifying the smell. I lurch to my feet and slam against the counter. Everything I touched and marred with my fingerprints—the doorknob, the cabinet, the dresser—flashes across my vision and is enough to make me dry heave again. Angela is implicated, Valentin said.

Floorboards groan somewhere else in the building. I wipe my chin with the back of my hand and grab a dish towel from the counter to mop up my sick, then shove it in a plastic bag I find in the pantry. I wait a full minute before tiptoeing to the front door. The stairwell is empty. Body odor lingers in the air and melds with the underlying dust.

Who killed this woman? How long has she been here? Valentin’s assertion that Manu is a missing person just became even more frightening since there’s a body underneath her sink. Is that Manu? What kind of past does Manu hide—a history of violence? The body could have been placed there after the police did their sweep. Right? Even as I try to logic through this, nothing makes sense. I can’t think straight with the arm so close, so stiff. What the fuck is going on? What was a hopeful visit to find some clue, some hint of evidence to vindicate Angela from Valentin’s suspicion, just turned into another nightmare.

I should try to ID her; I know it.

My fevered breathing turns to ugly sobs, and I stumble downstairs, techno music amplifying my frenzy.

The neighbor. The john descending the stairs. Jean-Luc. All the people who saw me here, wearing Angela’s face, surge to mind in a torrent of regret. All witnesses, capable of identifying me and confirming my suspicious actions. I spin along banisters, no longer touching anything, no longer careless and naive about the record of my being here.

I land on the first-floor foyer with the same thought repeating over and over in my head: two dead bodies in one week. The front door swings open as a gust of wind catches it, and I barely break stride, pounding the pavement in my flip-flops. Rhythmic human screams nip at my elbows, stay with me and ring in my ears the length of the block, until street noise finally drowns out the neighbor’s stereo.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Deep gulps of air burn my throat and batter my lungs. Pollution hangs low on the outskirts of Paris, and a bakery truck belches a cloud of gray past me. New tears sting my eyes, but I don’t slow my pace. I run until I spy an empty cab with an illuminated UNOCCUPIED sign, then get in and lock the doors. My breath catches, and I struggle to tell the cab driver where to go.

“Eh, mademoiselle, ça va?” He turns to me from the front seat, neon reflective sunglasses revealing little.