We’re climbing the stairs when my nerves finally catch up.

What I’m doing is ridiculous; it’s insane.

“Agreed,” says Jacob.

I’m hoping Lara’s knack for investigation paid off and that I’m even in the right place.

But it’s also the only lead I have.

I reach 3A, and my hand hesitates over the wood for a long second before I swallow, and knock.

A few moments later, a girl answers the door.

She’s maybe a year or two younger than me, in gold sneakers, jeans, and a pink-and-white sweater. Her skin is fair and her light brown hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, glossy and straight (I have no idea how people get hair like that—mine’s always been wild). The white stem of a lollipop sticks out the side of her mouth.

“Bonjour?” she says, tipping her chin.

I glance over my shoulder at Pauline, but she says nothing, just stands there unhelpfully, so I turn back.

“Hi,” I reply in English. “Um, parlez-vous anglais?” I ask, mustering some French (and definitely butchering it).

The girl considers me, then nods.

“Yes,” she says proudly, “I go to an international school, and they make us learn. It is a … clunky language, n’est-ce pas?”

“Sure,” I say, just glad she speaks it. “Are you Sylvaine Laurent?”

She draws back a little. “Mais non,” she says with a nervous laugh. “I am Adele. Sylvaine is my mother.” She calls back into the apartment, “Maman!” and then slips away without so much as a goodbye.

A moment later, a woman appears, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She looks like Adele, only older, her light brown hair hanging loose down to her shoulders. She even tilts her head the same way as she comes to the door.

“Oui?” she asks, addressing Pauline.

But Pauline shakes her head. “C’est pas moi,” she says, nodding at me. So I guess I’m on my own here. Sylvaine Laurent stares down at me, a wary look in her eyes.

“Hi, Madame Laurent,” I say, trying to muster Mom’s easy smile, or Dad’s confidence. “I’m researching a story about your great-uncle, Thomas Laurent.”

Sylvaine frowns a little. “What kind of story?”

“Well,” I say, faltering, “um, I guess it’s a research story?”

“This is going smoothly,” says Jacob, rocking on his heels.

“How did you hear about Thomas?” presses Sylvaine. For a second, I’m just glad she knows who I’m talking about, but the excitement wears off when her frown becomes an outright scowl.

“Oh, right.” I swallow, wishing I were a little older, or at least a little taller. “Well, my parents are hosting a television show about ghosts in Paris, and we were down in the Catacombs, and I heard—”

But Madame Laurent is already shaking her head.

“What happened to Thomas happened a long time ago,” she says, her tone cold. “It is not fit for speaking.”

I look to Pauline, silently begging her to say something, to intercede, but she only shrugs.

The girl, Adele, reappears in the foyer, lingering behind her mother, clearly curious.

“Please, Madame Laurent,” I try again. “I just want to help—”

She doesn’t give me a chance to finish, turning her attention to Pauline. They exchange a few words in rapid French, and then our Paris guide brings her hand to my shoulder.

“Come, Cassidy,” Pauline says. “We must return to your parents.”

“But I need to know—”

“Non,” says Madame Laurent, her face flushing pink. “You do not. History is history. It is past. And private.”

And with that she shuts the door in my face.

I sag back against the landing in defeat.

One step forward, two steps back, and zero steps closer to sending Thomas on.

“You tried,” says Pauline. “It did not work. These things happen.” She tugs a slip of paper from her pocket. A schedule. “Your parents should be on their way to the Pont Marie. We can meet them there—”

“You knew she wouldn’t talk to me.”

Pauline shrugs again. “I suspected, perhaps. The French are private people.”

“But you didn’t say anything!” I cry, exasperated. “You let me come all this way. Why didn’t you warn me?”

Pauline turns her sharp eyes on me. “Would it have stopped you?”

I open my mouth to protest, then close it again.

“That’s what I thought.”

I want to shout, to say that it has to work. That Thomas is getting stronger, and I have to learn his story so I can remind him who he is, so that the mirror will work and I can send him on before someone gets hurt, or worse.

Instead, I press my palms against my eyes to clear my head and follow Pauline down the stairs and out into the sun.

We walk to the bridge in silence, the trip punctuated only by the occasional siren, an emergency vehicle rushing past. I tell myself it’s not Thomas. I hope it’s not Thomas.

“The upside,” observes Jacob, “is that if it is Thomas, it seems like he’s no longer fixated on you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.

Jacob glances over his shoulder, frowns.

What is it? I ask silently.

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The Seine comes into sight, and I spy my parents leaning against the stone lip of a bridge, waiting while Anton and Annette adjust their cameras.

Paris has a ton of bridges crisscrossing the river and running from the banks to the two islands that float in the middle. This particular bridge doesn’t look all that special—it’s the same pale stone as so much of the city—but as my shoes hit the edge, the Veil pulses, rippling around me. Jacob shoots me a warning look, and I force the Veil back, manage to keep my feet.

By the time Pauline and I reach Mom and Dad, they’ve already started filming.

“Paris has many ghost stories,” begins Mom. “Some of them scary and some of them strange, some of them gruesome and some simply sad. But few are as tragic as the ghost of the Pont Marie.”

Jacob looks over his shoulder again, and I assume he’s just keeping an eye out for Thomas.

“During World War Two,” explains Dad, “the Resistance relied on spies to steal information, smuggle secrets from the Nazi forces.”

“Hey, Cass,” says Jacob, but I shush him.

“It’s said that the wife of a Resistance fighter became a spy in an unconventional way. She began seeing a Nazi soldier and took his secrets back to her husband. The woman and her husband would meet here, on the Pont Marie, at midnight …”

“Cass,” whispers Jacob again.

“What is it?” I hiss.

“Someone’s following us.”

What?

I turn to follow Jacob’s gaze, already lifting the camera viewfinder to my eye. I brace myself, expecting to see Thomas. But instead I see a girl with a high ponytail and gold sneakers that catch the light.

Adele.

To her credit, she doesn’t try to blend in or hide. She doesn’t even pretend to be looking at anyone or anything else. She just stands at the edge of the bridge, arms folded and head cocked, the white lollipop stick still in her mouth.