“But one cold winter night,” continues Mom, “the woman came to the bridge, and her husband did not. He never showed, and she froze to death right here, secrets frozen on her tongue …”

I walk up to Adele.

She’s a good head shorter than me, but she stares up, unblinking.

“How long have you been following me?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Since you left our house.”

“Why?”

“I heard what you said to my mother.” Her eyes narrow. “Why are you really interested in Thomas Laurent?”

“I told your mom—I’m researching a story.”

“Why?”

“For school,” I lie.

“It’s summer.”

“Fine,” I say. “I just want to know.”

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Why?”

I let out an exasperated breath. “Because I’m a ghost hunter, and Thomas Laurent is a ghost. Actually, he’s a poltergeist, which is like a ghost but stronger. I accidentally woke him up or something, and now he’s causing all kinds of problems, and I have to send him on to the other side, but I can’t do that until I figure out who he is—was—because he doesn’t remember.”

Jacob puts his head in his hands and groans, but Adele simply stares at me, chewing the inside of her cheek, and I wonder if the language barrier ate up half my words.

But then, after a long moment, she nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I believe you.”

She has a small backpack slung over one shoulder, and as I watch, she unzips it and pulls out a dozen cards, their edges fraying. “I brought you these,” she says, holding them out so I can see. They’re photographs, black and white, and faded with age.

One of the photographs is of a boy. I recognize Thomas instantly.

The round face, the wild curls, the smile. Not menacing here, but open, cheerful. Something rattles through me at the sight of this boy, not faded but solid, bright-eyed, alive.

Real.

I take the photos, turning through the stack. In the next one, Thomas isn’t alone. A boy, several years older than him, stands beside him, one hand resting playfully on the younger boy’s head. That must be …

“That’s Richard,” says Adele. “Thomas’s older brother. My great-grandfather.”

The third photo is a family portrait, the two boys side by side, framed by their parents, who stand stiff-backed and straight. And in the last photo, the older boy, Richard, stands alone in front of a Parisian building, his eyes a little sad. I recognize the doorway, the arch of the windows. I was just there. The building where the Laurents still live.

“Do these photos help you?” asks Adele.

I nod. “Thank you.”

It’s not Thomas’s story, but it’s something. After all, photos are memories pressed into paper. Maybe showing them to Thomas will jog his memory. But in order for that to work, I have to find him again.

“Cass!” calls Mom as she and Dad walk over, the crew on their heels.

Jacob sniffles a little and retreats, repelled by the sage-and-salt pouches I planted in their pockets and bags. “We’re done here. How was your adventure? And who’s this charming girl?”

“Adele Laurent,” she answers before I can. “I am helping Cassidy with her”—and I have to resist the urge to throw my hand over her mouth before she finishes—“research project.”

Pauline looks surprised, but Mom only beams. “How nice!”

“That’s wonderful,” adds Dad.

“Yeah, she’s been super helpful,” I say.

I’m about to offer to walk the girl home, a perfect opportunity to slip away and maybe learn more about Thomas, but Adele says, “You are filming a show about ghosts, n’est pas?”

“That’s right,” says Dad. “We’re on our way to our next location. Our last one, actually.”

Adele brightens. And then, before I can get a word in, she adds, “Cassidy said I could come with you.”

I most certainly did not.

“Of course,” says Mom. “If it’s all right with your parents?”

Adele shrugs. “Maman doesn’t mind where I go, so long as I’m careful.”

Lucky, I think.

“Well,” adds Dad, gesturing across the bridge to an island, where a cathedral rises against the skyline. “All we have left to film is Notre-Dame.”

“C’est cool!” says Adele.

As soon as my parents turn to go, I round on the girl. “I didn’t say that you could come.”

She shrugs. “I know, but it’s summer. There’s nothing to do. And this sounds much more fun than watching television. Besides, you owe me. I helped you.”

“Yeah, you did,” I say. “And, look, thanks for the photos, but it’s not safe, and you need to go home.”

“I can help you more,” she counters stubbornly. “I speak French, and I fit into small places—”

“Adele—”

“Plus, he is my family, not yours.”

“Girls!” calls Mom over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Adele smiles, and jogs to catch up.

And somehow, just like that, I’ve gained a shadow.

We weave through the streets, the twin stone towers of Notre-Dame rising ahead of us.

As we walk, I turn through the old photos again, searching for clues. I keep coming back to the one with the two brothers. They’re both smiling, and Richard has one hand planted in the mop of Thomas’s hair. Before, I was focused on Thomas, but this time, I can’t stop looking at Richard. His hair is lighter than Thomas’s, tucked beneath a cap, his face leaner and more angled, but it’s his eyes that stop me. They’re happy, bright, and they remind me of someone.

“He kind of looks like you,” I whisper, tipping the photo toward Jacob. A shadow crosses Jacob’s face, and for an instant he looks distracted, sad.

“I don’t see it,” he mumbles, looking away.

“Who are you talking to?” asks Adele, bobbing along beside me.

“Jacob. He’s a ghost.”

She crinkles her nose. “But I thought you hunted ghosts.”

Jacob and I exchange a look.

“I do,” I say. For a terrible second, the nightmare rises up in my mind, and I push it down. “But Jacob’s different.”

A breeze blows through, sudden and cold, and I’m already tensing, looking for Thomas, but Adele seems to feel it, too. She crosses her arms, scrunching up her shoulders.

“Have you noticed,” she says, “it’s getting colder?”

“That can’t be good,” says Jacob, and I don’t know if he means the falling temperature or the fact the cold is now strong enough for someone normal to feel, but either way, I agree.

I start walking faster. We catch up with my parents and the crew at an intersection, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. The chill is still hanging on the air, and I look around, sure that something is about to go wrong. But it doesn’t, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s just weather when the light turns green and I step off the curb into the street.