Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(29)

“Talk about a literal dead end,” muses Jacob.

“Yes,” says Lara, “but not really a surprise. He did die a hundred years before the invention of the internet. But I found something. Thomas’s older brother, Richard.”

My heart does a flip. “He’s still alive?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Lara. “But he did stay in Paris. Now, French names have far less variance than, say, American ones—there are a thousand Laurents—but thankfully Thomas and Richard’s parents had pretty unusual prénoms; that means first names—”

“Can we fast-forward?” I ask, desperate for a lead.

“Fine,” snaps Lara. “I’m pretty sure I found them. Your Laurents. Richard died thirty years ago, at the ripe old age of eighty-nine, but his granddaughter, Sylvaine, still lives in the city. I’m texting you her address. Maybe she knows the full story. Maybe she even has something that can help jog Thomas’s memory.”

“Lara,” I say. “You are amazing.”

“I know,” she says, “but this wasn’t terribly difficult. You’d be surprised what you can find if you know how to look. My school teaches fairly rigorous research methods.”

“Is there anything your school doesn’t teach?”

“Apparently how to hunt a poltergeist.”

Jacob makes a gasping sound. “Lara Chowdhury, did you just make a joke?”

I can almost hear Lara smile. “Anyway,” she says. “Good luck. And be careful.”

“You don’t have to say that every time.”

“You’d think not,” she says. “And yet.”

The call ends, the screen replaced by Lara’s text bubble with the address of a Madame Sylvaine Laurent in the eleventh arrondissement.

I have a lead.

Now I just have to convince my parents to let me follow it.



We’re having breakfast down in the salon when I bring it up, and in the end, it’s easier than I expected.

Dad preens when I tell him about a break in the case, clearly excited to have a budding sleuth in the family. But Mom, for once, seems wary.

“Where’s this sudden interest coming from?”

I look down at my croissant.

“Well,” I say, “I know you asked me to take photos for the show, but I also started thinking about the people whose stories don’t make the show. I wanted to learn more about them, and something about this Thomas boy just stuck with me. I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to his story,” I finish, hoping it doesn’t sound like I practiced that in the mirror. Several times.

“I’m sure it’s a very interesting tale, Cass,” says Mom, “and good on you for digging deeper. But our schedule here is so tight. It’s our last day to film and—”

“I can take her.”

The words come from Pauline, of all people.

“We can’t ask you to do that,” says Dad, but Pauline flicks her hand dismissively.

“It is no trouble,” she says. “You two will be fine with Anton and Annette. They know this city as well as I do. Besides, Cassidy has been very patient, and this mission clearly means a lot to her.” She glances my way, eyebrows raised, clearly prompting me to emphasize.

“It does!” I say.

Mom and Dad exchange a long look, and then agree, on the strict rules that I won’t bother the Laurents if they don’t want to be bothered, and that I’ll come back to the hotel as soon as it’s done.

“You’ll miss the Butcher of Marmousets,” says Mom with a sigh.

“Don’t even think about asking what that is,” warns Jacob.

I swing my camera bag onto my shoulder and hug my parents, patting the pocket of Dad’s tweed coat to make sure the pouch of sage and salt is safe inside.

And then we’re off.



“Why did you offer to go with me?” I ask Pauline as we get on the Metro.

“You are a child,” she says, “and Paris is a big city. It’s not safe to go wandering alone.”

I want to point out that I’m neither a child nor alone, and I’ve actually already gone exploring. But then again, that nearly ended in death by mirror, so maybe she’s onto something. Besides, now I have a translator.

I rock on my heels. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact my parents are going to that butcher place today, would it?”

“Nonsense,” she says, a little too quickly.

“You’re not scared, are you?” I ask. “I mean, you don’t believe in any of these things.”

“Exactly.”

The train murmurs softly as it moves beneath Paris. It’s warm and crowded, a motley collection of people, some in suits, and others in jogging gear, high heels mixed in with rainbow flats. Most of them are on their phones, but a handful read paperbacks or newspapers or stare into space.

The train rocks a little as it gains speed.

Jacob stares out the window at the darkness sailing past the glass, and the effect is chilling, his reflection little more than streaks and blurs. An image submerged, dissolving. I think of the nightmare, and then do everything I can not to think of it. I end up focusing instead on Thomas Laurent.

The fact I haven’t seen him since last night.