“What happened?”
“I didn’t tell her that you knew Lucien. I was afraid she might say something to him. I just told her that you knew his reputation, and what kind of criminal dealings he and his associates were known for. She didn’t buy it. She wants you and me to stay out of her business.”
“You’re upset,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.
“Yes. I’m upset . . . not that Georgia and I are fighting. That’s nothing out of the ordinary. I’m upset because I’m afraid for her. She told me that they’re only seeing each other casually. But I can’t help but worry.”
“You’ve done everything you can,” Vincent said. “You can’t control your sister. Just try to put it out of your mind.”
Easier said than done.
After our pizzas were delivered, we moved downstairs to the screening room and plopped down onto a massive old worn-leather couch to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which Vincent had pulled from their vast movie collection. Sitting there in the darkened room and munching on slices of mushroom and Parmesan, for once I actually felt like Vincent and I were doing something a real, normal couple would do . . . that is, if I didn’t think about what was going to happen to him after midnight.
I left around nine. He insisted on walking me home, and we strolled along the darkened Paris streets at a snail’s pace. He seemed as weak as if he were actually eighty-seven years old. It was hard to believe that this same guy had been wielding a sword the weight of a couch just a few days earlier. When we got to my door, he gave me a slow, tender kiss and turned to go.
“Be careful,” I said, not knowing the etiquette of saying good-bye to someone who was going to spend the next three days dead. Vincent winked and blew me a kiss, and turning the corner, he was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
MAMIE HAD ASKED US IF WE WANTED TO HAVE A traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but neither Georgia nor I felt like it. Anything American reminded me of home. And home reminded me of my parents. I asked Mamie if we could treat it like any other day, and she agreed.
So I spent Thanksgiving Day on my bed reading, trying not to think of my boyfriend, dead on his bed a few blocks away.
On Friday morning, I walked the five minutes from my house to Jean-Baptiste’s. Standing outside the massive gates, I typed the digicode that Vincent had texted me into the security box and watched the gates swing open.
Once at the front door, I wasn’t sure whether I should knock or just walk in. As I raised my hand the door opened, and Gaspard stood in front of me, nervously wringing his hands.
“Mademoiselle Kate,” he said, giving me an awkward little bow. “Vincent told me you were here. Come in, come in.” He didn’t even attempt to give me the bises, and, afraid that my mere presence was giving him a heart attack, I didn’t insist.
“Any news?” I asked.
“Sadly, no,” Gaspard said. “Come back to the kitchen. Vincent’s telling me to ask if you want a coffee.”
“No, no, I just had breakfast. I’m fine.”
“Ah, okay then. Vincent says if you want to come back to his room, he’s ready to help you with your . . . trig?” Gaspard looked confused.
“Trigonometry,” I said to him, laughing. And then to the air I said, “Thanks, Vincent, but I left it at home. You get to look over my shoulder for English lit and European history today.”
Gaspard laughed a nervous laugh. “Vincent says that I should be the one to help you with that. My, my, it’s true, I have been around to see a bit of history. But I wouldn’t want to bore you with my tales.”
Sensing that helping a teenager with her history homework would be the last way he would want to spend his morning, I politely declined, to his obvious relief.
“Charlotte’s out, but I’ll let her know you’re here when she returns,” he said, dropping me off in front of Vincent’s door.
“Thank you,” I responded.
Vincent’s room was as I had seen it the first time. Windows and curtains closed. Fire cold in the hearth. And Vincent cold on the bed. I shivered as I saw his motionless form behind the gauze bed curtains.
Shutting the door behind me, I placed my bag on the couch and approached the bed. He lay there completely immobile. Devoid of life. It struck me how different he looked from somebody who was merely sleeping, with their chest in perpetual motion, breath coming in and out of their mouth. Pulling the drapes back, I gingerly sat down on the bed and gazed at him, magnificent even in death.
“Okay, I feel a bit silly talking to you like this,” I said to the empty room. “Like in a minute you’re going to jump out of the closet and laugh your head off.”