#ReadWithMC (opens in new tab)-Welcome to Marie Claire's virtual book club. It is a pleasure to meet you, and for the month of March we will be reading "An Apartment in Paris" by Lucy Foley (opens in a new tab). This mystery is about the main character, Jess, who arrives in Paris to visit her half-brother, Ben, only to find him missing. Read an excerpt from the novel and learn how to join our virtual book club here (opens in a new tab). (You really don't have to get off the couch, just click here).

For God's sake, Ben. Pick up the phone. I'm freezing. The Eurostar left London two hours late. It's colder tonight than it was in London. Even though it's only the end of October, my breath is so smoky that my toes go numb when I put on my boots. It is hard to believe that there was a heatwave just a few weeks ago. I need a proper coat. But there are always so many things I need that I just can't get.

I must have called Ben ten more times on the half-hour walk from North Station when the Eurostar arrived. No answer. No reply to any of my texts. Thanks for nothing, brother.

He said he was here to let me in. 'Hit the buzzer. I'll be waiting."

Well, here we are. A dimly lit, cobblestone-lined cul-de-sac in an upscale neighborhood. The apartment building in front of me is closed off at this end and stands alone.

I look back down the empty street; I think I see a shadow moving beside a parked car about three meters away. I move to the side to get a better look. I squint my eyes and try to make out the shape. There is someone crouching behind the car.

A siren blares a few streets away, and I jump in the silence. I listen as the sound fades into the darkness of the night. Neenoh, neenoh," it sounds like a child's comment, but my heart still beats a little faster.

I glance back at the shadowy area behind my parked car. I couldn't see any movement now, not even the shape I thought I had glimpsed before. Maybe it was a trick of the light after all.

I look up at the building. The other buildings on this street are beautiful, but this one dominates them all. It is set back from the street behind a large gate, with high walls on either side concealing a garden or courtyard of some sort; it is five or six stories high, with large windows, all with wrought iron balconies. In front of it, ivy is growing all over the place, like a creeping black stain. If you crane your neck, you can see what appears to be a roof garden on the roof, the spiky shapes of trees and shrubs cut out in black against the night sky.

I double-check the address: number 12, Rue des Amants. No doubt. I still can't believe that Ben lived in this shabby apartment. Ben said he was introduced to me by someone he knew from his school days. But Ben has always walked on his own two feet. I think Ben is an attractive man, which is why he was able to live in a place like this. Charm must have made him that way. Journalists probably make more money than bartenders, but I didn't realize it would be this much.

The metal gate in front of me has a brass lion's head knocker. At the top of the gate stand spikes to prevent climbing. The high walls on either side of the gate are embedded with shards of glass. These security measures seem at odds with the elegance of the building.

I lift the cold, heavy knocker in my hand and drop it. The sound bounces off the cobblestones, making a louder noise than expected in the silence. In fact, it is so quiet and dark here that it is hard to believe that this is the part of town I skulked across from North Station this evening. I think of the area around the huge Sacré Coeur temple, lit up on top of a hill, which I passed only 20 minutes ago. I think of the throngs of tourists taking selfies, and the shady men in puff jackets trying to get in between them and snatch a wallet or two. And then there are the neon signs, the blaring music, the all-night dining, the crowds spilling out of the bars, the lines at the clubs. This is another world. I looked back down the street behind me. All I can hear is the sound of dead ivy flitting across the cobblestones. I can hear the roar of traffic and car horns in the distance, but even they seem muffled, as if they dare not intrude into this elegant, silent world.

I didn't stop to think much. I was concentrating on not getting mugged, on not getting caught on the wheel of a broken suitcase and losing my balance. But now, for the first time, it hit me: I am here, in Paris. A different city, a different country. I am here. I have abandoned my old life.

The light comes on in the window above. I look up and see a dark figure standing there. His head and shoulders silhouetted. Ben" If it were him, I'm sure he would wave me down. I know it must be illuminated by the nearby streetlight. But the figure in the window is as still as a statue. I cannot make out their features, nor can I tell if they are men or women. But they are looking at me. They must be. I must look rather shabby and out of place, trying to open a broken old suitcase, despite the bungee cords around me. It's a strange feeling that they can see me and I can't see them. I cast my eyes down.

Aha. To the right of the gate, I find a small panel with buttons for each room, and a lens set into it. The big lion's head knocker must be just for show. I step forward and press the button for Ben's room on the third floor. I wait to hear his voice over the intercom.

No answer.

Excerpted from "An Apartment in Paris" (open in new tab): a novel by Lucy Foley. Copyright © 2022 Lucy Foley. From William Morrow, a division of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.