The Missing Sister

by Marr, Elle

  I just. I can’t.

  For better or worse, ever since I pretended to be you for the eighth-grade presentations that rocketed you to the best science classes, you have always been Mom and Dad’s favorite. In turn, after that massive favor, you harped on my mood swings—said they made you feel unstable or threatened or whatever as kids—but think about what you’re doing to us now. What you’ve done. You know this last thing is what they would have wanted. Us working together again, finally, to find a compromise here. Us being the powerful duo they always said we would be. Don’t be so proud or so blind to your narcissism that you can’t see you’re still acting the favorite. Even when you don’t deserve that title anymore.

  Think of someone other than yourself, Shayna Astrid. Otherwise, I don’t know how we can continue.

  Chapter 15

  Inside the Sorbonne’s courtyard, large cobblestones stretch from the immense domed chapel to the Legal Sciences wing—all pillars and Greek influence—uninterrupted but for a large fountain in the middle. The sun dips on its downward trajectory now in late afternoon, and shadows climb the opposite stone walls like in a Charlton Heston film.

  One good thing to come out of Valentin’s visit: a checklist. Now I know exactly where Angela went in the days prior to her initial disappearance. On Friday, the twenty-ninth, she was at the Sorbonne. On Thursday she only left her apartment to perform dissertation work and to go to dinner at Les Deux Moulins with Bronn. On Wednesday she visited Emmanuelle Wood, and Tuesday she was seen on the Champs-Élysées. I can unofficially stalk my sister much in the way her abductor might have. Finally having an outline of a plan is a relief after the last several days of bumbling about wearing my sister’s face, practically baiting someone to finish what they started; they call me the type-A twin for a reason.

  I head straight for the humanities department, dodging clumps of students and a man handing out leaflets in the courtyard. Delphine Rousseau’s assertive voice travels from her office on the second floor to the lobby, but I circle the scuffed tile below. Another Divine Research–style sign is unlikely to be here on campus, but it was damn near a unicorn to begin with. A pass at the baseboards and the ceiling molding confirms my disappointment—not even a trace of ambiguous graffiti to misinterpret. Polished benches and lacquered stairwell balustrades lining the walls could be featured in museums; their sheen glints in the sunlight cascading through the latticed glass panels forming the ceiling. Students casually lie on the benches, studying or taking afternoon naps.

  This nonchalant intersection of modernity and history seems so Angela—the integration of cell phones Snapchatting images of the fountain sculpture, as easy and obvious as passing the Eiffel Tower on a daily commute. Certain statues were made in honor of real people who walked these grounds at one point, according to a few plaques; students send text messages beneath them in the narrow shade. Sadness slows my steps as I recognize how my sister traveled six thousand miles to find her proverbial tribe, before a comforting thought replaces it: my sister was happy here.

  Across the plaza, author Victor Hugo guards the entrance to the library. My heart beats faster with each step closer to the site of Angela’s disappearance. According to Valentin, she came here that Friday doing something. Checking out a book? No one knows what, exactly. Witnesses say she was walking the many aisles when the shooting occurred. I did an internet search on whether school shootings were as common in France as they are in the United States and discovered highly regulated French gun laws, consistent with Nour’s commentary. Everything I found on French news websites and then translated via Google made a point of saying how surprising the shooting was, considering universities are respected throughout the country, if not necessarily revered. The shooter himself was high on a few substances and cited difficulties with his peers, as well as recent indoctrination by the Red Brothers. Armed guards on campus fired shots before he took his own life. The chaos of hundreds of students running to safety made the aftermath hard to track. Angela was last seen in the library.

  Rows of tables with generic desk lamps greet the eye upon entry. A normal scene, excepting the destruction opposite: panes of glass are completely missing. Yellow tape, with the words ZONE INTERDITE—prohibited zone—repeated over and over protects the closest walkway area in a three-foot arc. Shards no longer line the floor after three weeks, but a clear plastic tarp covers the section of glass still needing to be replaced.

  In spite of expecting it—of being surprised I didn’t see anything earlier—the visual of the moment’s violence is stunning. Was this the moment of the shooter’s death or before? Did he spend time here, did he care about these aisles of books, or did he run here by accident?

  My fists clench. I pass along the side aisle, imagining my sister studying with exchange students and French students, commingling with all, unaware that anyone could want to harm her. Maybe the shooter didn’t target her, but he did other students and faculty. And his actions ultimately gave someone the opportunity to snatch her. The thought squeezes my chest when I reach the tall columns of the archaeology aisle. I withdraw several books from a shelf, waiting for a title or cover to leap out as the one Angela needed—the catalyst to this whole disaster.

  Diving deep into pages about urban planning of the eighteenth century, I search the table of contents for words in French I recognize. I move to the next shelf and barrel into a young woman. We each cry out before sharing a laugh at our mutual reaction. I apologize, Pardon, but she dismisses it before I can breathe the second syllable. Pas de problème, she says. Confusion tenses my mouth. She’s not annoyed I knocked her book to the ground and kicked it under a shelf? Dark hair falls from her ponytail as she bends down like it’s the most normal thing in the world, bumping into a stranger in the library weeks after grief and violence struck here. She smiles again and shrugs small shoulders. Without another glance, she turns down the next aisle.

  Another fifteen minutes offers nothing of use before I realize the catacombs will be closing soon. Regret tinges my second goodbye to Angela’s university, along with the nagging thought that I’m missing something.

  Crowds ebb and flow while I stand across the street from the green toolshed, observing like the voyeur I am. At the front of the line, a Japanese couple uses animated gestures while speaking to the cashier. They pay, then pass through the revolving turnstile and into the informative foyer. People’s expressions alternate between excitement and obvious dread. Individuals cast longing glances toward where I stand, far from the entrance, beside a terrace table belonging to an Irish-themed bar.

  On Thursday Angela went straight from her apartment to the catacombs around ten in the morning. She came home around six for dinner with Seb. A whole day was spent underground doing work on her dissertation, like a less athletic version of Lara Croft. The archaeology director, Dr. Leroux, told Valentin he saw Angela come in; they had lunch together around one o’clock, right when his belly started to rumble. Otherwise, she left around five. In the interim she photographed piles of bones relevant to her research. She was a staple often seen belowground at that point, going on nine months of interning. According to Valentin, the director implicitly trusted her with everything down there, both to ask if she needed help and to respect the significance, the history of the tunnels.

  From outside, everything looks the same as it did two days ago. I didn’t see anything significant aboveground or below when I did the self-guided tour with Seb, and I have no intention of descending again on the off chance I missed another sign. As Seb explained, the catacombs are two hundred miles long. If there is some clue buried one hundred and fifty miles in, in the dark, behind a stack of skeletons (a stack identical to the dozens of others down there), it’s as good as nonexistent for me.

  Without a more specific idea of where to look, I was hoping some intuition would strike me outside the entrance.

  A young boy pitches from the queue to hug a tree on the sidewalk. His parents raise their voices, motioning for him to get b
ack in line, but he refuses, tightening his grasp around the trunk. The mom and dad take turns cajoling the boy as the line moves up. By the time they are three people from the front, they give up and join their kid on the sidewalk. A joyful whoop bursts from the boy, then he tears across the street. His parents follow at a grumbling distance while I high-five him on his way inside. I wish I had done more of that growing up—held my boundaries and waited them all out: my parents, Angela, our friends and teachers who categorized and made assumptions about me as soon as they saw my mirror double.

  Other people take notice of the boy’s quick escape. Several heads turn my way from beside the ticket booth, including a set of gelled curls that looks like a riptide of Corsican chocolate. Seb and I lock eyes. He makes his way across the street while my stomach knots remembering our last moments together. The memory of the heady scent of his cologne returns well before he stops a foot away from me.

  “Hello, Shayna.” He speaks to my feet, as awkward as I feel. The short-sleeved white button-up he wears strains at his chest.

  “Hi.” I shift my weight to my other foot. It’s been two days and at least a half dozen apologetic texts and calls from him. I haven’t replied to any of them; what is there to say?

  “I was just—um.” Seb gestures behind him, back to the catacombs kiosk. “I was wanting to . . . Were you thinking about—?” He points downward.

  “Oh no. Definitely not. I was . . .” My voice trails off, imagining the words said out loud: I was just following your exact suggestion to retrace Angela’s steps today. This is my second stop. He did have a good idea, but I can’t allow Seb to think we might partner up again or let him know where to find me—even if we’re so in sync we end up at the same place at the same time. “I was just people watching.”

  Seb sinks deep into a nod, puckering full lips. “I see.”

  A moment passes in which we both look around, at the patio chairs, at the catacombs queue, at the clear sky, rather than at each other.

  “Well. I have sent you a few messages, but let me say this in person,” he begins. “I am sorry for what happened between us, Shayna.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather . . . We’re not . . . There’s no need to talk about it,” I babble.

  Seb places his hands in his shorts’ pockets. “In any case, I hope you’ll forgive me. It was wrong, and I take full responsibility. For kissing you,” he adds, squinting, as though I forgot. “I hope that we can continue to work together. For Angela’s sake.”

  Hearing him speak our shame knocks immediate sobriety into me. Whatever small flame flickered upon seeing him, it’s quenched. “Sure. Listen, I gotta get going, though. Good to see you, Sebastien.”

  He shrinks backward. “Seb.”

  “Good to see you.”

  With another nod, he turns around and crosses the street to the kiosk. I watch until he reaches the corner, then passes out of sight toward the city center. Relief, dismay, and something like loneliness all mix together in my throat. Our random encounter felt less serendipitous and more like a heavy reminder: I’ve elected to do this without him, and I better get it right.

  The sun slopes in a decline, nearly touching the narrow gray Haussmann-style chimneys of the city skyline. I take a seat to plan out my next move and order a café au lait and pain au chocolat from an older woman. She is distinctly not Irish in her greeting: Bonjour, mademoiselle!

  An online search turns up little using Emmanuelle Wood + Paris, but the white pages database produces options within Paris proper. Buttery pain au chocolat flakes litter the steel folding patio table, and bittersweet dark chocolate coats my tongue as I scroll through results. Heaven. I cross-reference with social media to find only one choice under the age of fifty—a heavy pout fills the circle of the profile picture. Online presence: strong. My own Facebook account contains sporadic posts from over the years, since I never really got into it. Angela’s timeline used to bubble with action, but as I saw a few weeks ago when I started researching her world, that tapered off. Manu’s About section practically triangulates her address. Through a thorough study of the last year’s posts (and check-ins from her apartment) it’s easier than I hoped to find her.

  I text her address to Jean-Luc with specific directions (Metro stop Rue d’Alésia, two blocks south, across from a MarchéU grocery store, tomorrow morning), though nothing about the purpose of the visit, then I wait for his response. The line across the street maintains a constant flow of anxious visitors even past dinnertime. The longer Jean-Luc doesn’t reply, the more nervous I become he won’t be able to join me tomorrow; maybe he’s working or sick of following me around like a shadow. Just in case someone, Manu or otherwise, is there, I want my form of French insurance with me. The hopeful arch of Seb’s eyebrows fills my thoughts, but I shake my head.

  The waitress returns with the check as my phone pings:

  Be there at 8:30. Almost thought you’d forgotten about me.

  The corner of my mouth twists into a smile. Is Jean-Luc flirting with me? Part of me likes him toeing the line after our emotional last parting. It’s encouraging that we can forget the whole thing and move forward these next four days.

  Footsteps come fast and quick around the corner, children’s voices blurring together at a high-pitched frequency. I look up as they hurtle past the restaurant and a small hand snatches my phone from my lap. Before I can react, five pairs of feet take off running faster than I would, had I not been sitting buffaloed in my chair. Their laughter carries from the corner crosswalk as they sidestep a group of teens and disappear from view.

  “I lost a camera to those little vagrants my last trip to Paris.” The woman sitting alone at the table next to me shakes her head. Her accent is American, and she wears a baseball hat with the words Las Vegas stitched across it. She leans conspiratorially toward me. “Sip your coffee with both eyes open—my advice.”

  I nod, not fully absorbing her tip. Instead, I stare in the direction they barreled. My phone is gone. Gone?

  Regroup. Losing my phone is a serious blow—to my afternoon, my search, and all the notes I was keeping on it—but I have no desire to rant about it with a stranger, and all my files are uploaded to a cloud storage platform anyway. Although my phone was old by technology standards—almost two years—it will fetch a good price on the black market. Judging from their faded clothing and dirty knees, those kids (or their parents) need the money more than I do.

  Seriously? Now is when I get all humanitarian?

  I have no phone. I’m in Paris. With no phone.

  “You don’t live here, right?” the woman asks. Large sunglasses dwarf sagging, rouged cheeks. “You’re visiting?”

  “Yeah, just for the week.”

  “Do you need to call someone? Maybe your hotel?” She offers up her phone, a BlackBerry with built-in keypad.

  My only source of contact with home, and the tiny circle of people I know in Paris, is probably halfway to Normandy by now. No doubt clanging around with a few other phones, tablets, and pairs of earbuds in one of the backpacks I saw bouncing along. Valentin has no way of reaching me. Cold shock drips through my body, fully absorbing the significance.

  There’s a tiny phone retailer next to Angela’s apartment and I’m sure a few on the Champs-Élysées. I’ll have to buy one. Shit. Valentin mentioned some disturbing new details to be aware of; this is not the time to lose lines of communication. A serial killer may or may not think I’m my sister, and I can’t look up any new information or destinations until I reach Montmartre and my laptop tonight. At least I managed to text Jean-Luc Manu’s address beforehand. Staying too long in one spot when I might have an unknown pursuer is frivolous and/or lazy. He or she could be watching me right now.

  “Hey, are you okay?” The woman stands beside me, metallic lenses reflecting my anxiety. She looks toward the restaurant’s interior and asks someone for a glass of water. My breath snaps in and out of my lungs, a rubber band sound. In out in out in out. Faster and harder. In
outinoutinout. A mother with a baby stroller walks by, stares straight ahead, pretending I’m not hyperventilating, not having a panic attack, not imploding into a snotty mess.

  “Tiens.” Someone hands me a glass, and I drink it back in three gulps.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  I look up. Farther on, behind the woman, a policeman with a cap pulled low and CHiPS-style sunglasses betraying nothing stares at me. He approaches from down the block, and I suddenly realize I’m making a great big scene in public. People across the street in line stop to point at me, remarking on the spectacle.

  “Astrid.” I reply with my middle name, loudly. I slap a few euros on the table, thank the woman, and hail a cab.

  The driver looks wary of my red eyes and blotchy cheeks, but I clear my throat. I give him Manu’s address instead of Angela’s. The first thing that comes to mind.

  We head to the southwest part of Paris, cutting through long side streets and busy boulevards to the Moulin de la Vierge quarter. The blocks here are seedier than those of the housing projects I encountered at Nour’s. No empty lots, just abandoned buildings. An affront to the beauty Paris is known for, and confirmation there’s a backside to those picturesque postcards. A stooped woman pushes a shopping cart while a child stands alone in a full diaper, surrounded by weeds, watching me pass; cardboard boxes form water-stained forts in front yards beside disabled men in berets who reflect my own leering back at me from folding chairs on the sidewalk.