Wandering back among the crowds, I clutch the shoulder strap of my bag and pull my hat down low. The picture frame adds a new weight to my tissues and passport, one that announces itself with each bang against my hip—I will not be ignored—clang clang—I am here—clang. Angela is not typically the Other Woman. It’s not her style; she believes in love and white horses too much. It seems outlandish she would go after another woman’s man, disrupting their lives so much she earns herself a stalker. She would never fight for a man to begin with, instead insisting he should recognize her value on his own. A street performer calls to me on his microphone, but I walk faster and move out of range.

Something is off about the romantic photo of Emmanuelle and the heartthrob. It was the only photo of him in the bedroom. Did they break up and she burned the rest of them? Is he photo shy and that’s the only good one of him? The GQ picture I found in Angela’s box says otherwise.

If the neighbor hasn’t realized there’s a dead body in Manu’s apartment by now, she will soon. That acrid smell will grow worse—and lead police straight to my fingerprints on the doorknob. A shudder crawls across my shoulders despite the morning heat. Jean-Luc had the right idea in wiping down his prints.

Five days have come and gone, and I’m no closer to discovering what happened to my sister. Five days. Bits of clues and a list of people to avoid keeps growing, but Angela’s whereabouts remain just outside my understanding. I’ve done everything people in the know have done or suggested: Seb’s idea to retrace Angela’s steps, Valentin’s police work telling me those precise last steps, Nour’s suggestion to visit Delphine, and even Jean-Luc’s cautious guidance at the restaurant. Each form of advice was offered with other priorities in mind. Official constraints placed on each move. This whole time, I’ve been chasing someone else’s idea of how to find my sister. Someone else’s idea of Angela.

I set off toward the hill of Montmartre at a brisk pace.

Angela’s apartment was turned upside down and inside out by the police, judging from the box of evidence in Valentin’s office. She knows I would never gain access to something the police would consider important; every clue she thought I’d need I must have already seen, back at home base.