A body. There’s a body in Manu’s apartment. Another thought strikes me, and my hand flies to my mouth. What if that was Angela?

“Shayna?”

I yelp and knock into a rack of camisoles. The flimsy tops fall to the ground in a pile. Seb studies me from beside a table of women’s jeans, dark eyebrows stitched together. Yellow squash pokes from a reusable shopping bag slung over his arm.

“This is why you did not return my calls or texts? Because you would rather shop than recount Angela’s steps together? Did I catch you between stores at the catacombs yesterday?” The pain in his voice makes me glad he’s standing against the storefront window, the sun behind him hiding his face. The satin top in my fist might as well be a smoking gun. Fury fills me at his accusatory tone.

“Actually, yes. I would love to be shopping rather than recount . . . retracing my sister’s steps!” The noisy cluck of saleswomen at the back counter pauses. “Look, Seb.” I run a hand down my jaw, try to act normal. Try to remember what that is at this point. What is he even doing here? Is this his normal jaunt home? Was he following me? “I needed some space after . . . after Monday.”

He takes a hard step forward. “What happened does not matter, Shayna. What matters is learning Angela’s fate before you leave.” He grips my arms. “I cannot do this alone, Shayna. I have tried. I did not want to push you yesterday, but seeing you here, I need your help. Please.” His voice cracks.

Blue eyes stare with such intensity, I can’t tell if it’s meant for me or Angela. “Are you listening?” His eyes are bloodshot, like he hasn’t slept well. A loud buzzing flits past my ear, then a fly lands on Seb’s shoulder. He slaps it, leaving a trace of wing, before wiping his hand on his cargo shorts. “My apartment is nearby across the river. Will you come with me and work together again? I worry about you.”

Etiquette would suggest at least grabbing a coffee. But I’ve used up my quota of niceties for Seb. I eye him again, with Valentin’s claim about his dishonorable discharge in mind; Seb still seems lonely, sad, and in mourning. No outward sign of imbalance. The yellow tank top he wears emphasizes thick shoulders and beefy arms. A tattoo of a rooster peeks from his neckline above his heart. He shifts his weight, waiting for my answer, and the tension leaches from his frame until he just appears neglected, needy.

“Shayna, we could—”

“No, Seb. We are not a team. You and Angela were a team, maybe, but not us.”

He straightens. His jaw pulses as he meets my gaze. “You and Angela are the team. Always.”