“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.

“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.