Tunnel of Bones (City of Ghosts #2)(32)

“Oh, I don’t have to do it alone,” I say. “I have Jacob.”

She raises a brow. “Jacob?”

“He’s my best friend,” I say, adding, “He’s a ghost.”

This time both eyebrows go up. “I see.” And despite what she just said about believing, I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

When I tell her that, she sighs. “I believe that you believe.”

I shake my head. “Why is it that when kids believe in something, adults write it off as imagination, but when adults believe in something, people assume it’s true?”

“I’m not sure anyone would assume this is true.”

“But you just said you’ve seen things. You said you believed.”

Pauline shakes her head. “Belief is not a blanket, Cassidy. It doesn’t cover everything. Forgive me. There’s a big difference between believing in the supernatural in the general sense and believing the twelve-year-old girl you’re escorting across Paris is a ghost hunter with a dead sidekick.”

“Excuse me,” says Jacob. “Who is she calling sidekick?”

Before I can explain that he’s more of a partner in crime, Pauline stops, gesturing to a lemon-yellow building with white accents and flower baskets in the windows. “Here we are.”

It’s an old-fashioned apartment building. Lara didn’t give me an apartment number, but a quick scan of the buzzers running down the right side says that “Mme Laurent” lives in 3A. A man is walking out of the building, and I catch the front door before it can swing closed behind him. Pauline and I slip inside.

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.”