Die for Me (6 page)

MY BODY NO LONGER FELT CONNECTED TO MY
mind. I stood and walked toward the phantom.
Either I'm having a mental breakdown that started in the library,
I thought,
or the guy standing in front of me is a ghost
. Both explanations seemed more probable than the alternative: that Jules had actually survived a head-on collision with a subway train, not only in one piece but apparently uninjured.

When I was a few feet away, he saw me coming, and for a split second, he hesitated. Then he turned to me with a completely blank look on his face.

“Jules!” I said urgently.

“Hello,” he said calmly. “Do I know you?”

“Jules, it's me, Kate. I visited your studio with Vincent, remember? And I saw you at the Métro station that day of . . . the crash.”

His expression changed from blank to amused. “I am afraid that you have me confused with someone else. My name is Thomas, and I don't know anyone called Vincent.”

Thomas, my foot,
I thought, wanting to shake him. “Jules. I know it's you. You were in that horrible accident when . . . just over a month ago?”

He shook his head and shrugged, as if to say,
Sorry
.

“Jules, you have to tell me what's going on.”

“Listen, um, Kate? I have no idea what you're talking about, but let me help you over to that bench. You must be overexcited.Or overwrought.” He took me by my elbow and began leading me back to the benches.

I jerked my arm away and stood facing him with fists clenched. “I know it's you. I'm not crazy. And I don't know what's going on. But I accused Vincent of being heartless for running away from your death. And now it turns out you're alive.”

I realized that my voice had been rising as I saw a security guard head our way. I flashed Jules a furious look as the uniformed man walked up to us and asked, “Is there a problem here?”

Jules calmly looked the guard in the eyes and said, “No problem, sir. She seems to have mistaken me for someone else.”

“I have not!” I hissed under my breath, then left, walking quickly toward the exit. Turning to see Jules and the guard staring my way, I strode out of the museum and ran down the escalators.

There was only one place I could go.

The subway ride back to my neighborhood seemed interminable, but finally I found myself sprinting up the Métro steps into the fading sunlight and heading toward the rue de Grenelle. Standing before the massive vine-draped wall, I rang the doorbell. A light went on above my head, and I looked up into a video surveillance camera.

“Oui?”
a voice asked after a few seconds.

“It's Kate. I'm . . .” I paused, momentarily losing my courage. But remembering the cruelty of my last words to Vincent, I spoke with renewed resolve. “I'm a friend of Vincent's.”

“He's not in.” The male voice crackled metallically through the tiny speaker on the bottom of the keypad.

“I need to talk to him. Can't I leave a message?”

“Don't you have his phone number?”

“No.”

“And you're a friend?” The voice sounded skeptical.

“Yes, I mean no. But I need to talk to him. Please.”

There was a moment of silence, and then I heard the click that meant the gate had been unlocked. It swung slowly inward. Across the courtyard, a man stood in the open doorway. My heart dropped an inch when I saw that it wasn't Vincent.

I walked quickly across the cobblestones to face the man, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn't make me sound like a crazy person. But when I reached him, all words escaped me. Although he seemed to be in his sixties, his faded green eyes looked centuries-old.

His longish gray hair was smoothed back with pomade, and his face was punctuated by a long, hooked, noble-looking nose. I immediately recognized in his face and dress the mark of French aristocracy.

If I hadn't already met his type as clients of Papy's antiques business, I would have recognized his features from the portraits of nobility hanging in every French castle and museum. Old family. Old money. This palace of a house must be his.

His voice cut me off midthought. “You're here to see Vincent?”

“Yes . . . I mean yes,
monsieur
.”

He nodded approvingly as I corrected my manners to befit his age and station. “Well, I am sorry to inform you that, as I said before, he is not here.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“In a few days, I would think.”

I didn't know what to say. He turned to leave, and feeling completely awkward, I blurted, “Well, could I at least leave him a message?”

“And what message would that be?” he asked dryly, adjusting the silk ascot tied at the neck of his impeccable white cotton shirt.

“Could . . . could I write it?” I stammered, fighting the urge to just walk away. “I'm sorry to impose on your time, sir, but would you mind if I wrote him a message?”

He lifted his eyebrows and studied my face for a moment. And then, opening the door behind him for me to pass through, he said, “Very well.”

I walked into the magnificent foyer and waited as he closed the door behind us. “Follow me,” he said, leading me through a side door into the same room where Vincent had brought me tea. He gestured to a desk and chair and said, “You will find writing paper and pens in the drawer.”

“I have some with me, thanks,” I said, patting my book bag.

“Do you wish me to send for some tea?”

I nodded, thinking that would win me a few minutes to think of what to write. “Yes, thank you.”

“Then Jeanne will bring you your tea and show you out. You can give the note for Vincent to her.
Au revoir, mademoiselle
.” He gave me a curt nod, and then closed the door behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Pulling a pen and notebook out of my bag, I tore off a piece of paper and stared at it for a full minute before starting to write.
Vincent
,
I began.

I'm starting to understand what you meant when you said that things aren't always as they seem. I found your photo, and that of your friend, in the 1968 obituary pages. And then, right afterward, I saw Jules. Alive.

I can't imagine what all this means, but I want to apologize for the mean things I said—after you treated me so kindly. I told you I never wanted to see you again. I take it back.

At least help me understand what's going on, so I won't end up in a loony bin somewhere, blabbering about dead people for the rest of my days.

Your move.
Kate

I folded the note and waited. Jeanne never came. I watched the minutes tick away on the grandfather clock, growing more nervous with each passing second. Finally I began to worry that perhaps I was supposed to go find Jeanne. Maybe she was waiting in the kitchen with my tea. I walked into the foyer. The house was silent.

I noticed, however, that a door across from me was ajar. Walking slowly over to it, I peeked inside. “Jeanne?” I called softly. There was no response. I pushed the door open and walked into a room that was almost identical to the one I had come from. It had the same small door in the corner as the one that Vincent had brought my tea through.
The servants' entrance,
I thought.

Opening it, I saw a long, dark passageway. My heart in my throat, I walked toward a windowed door at the end, with light illuminating its panes. It swung open onto a large, cavernous kitchen. No one was there. I breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that I had been afraid of running into the master of the house once more.

Deciding to leave the note in the mailbox on the way out, I hurried back down the tunnel-like space. Now that the kitchen's light was at my back, I saw several doors punctuating the long hallway and noticed that one was slightly ajar. A warm light was glowing from inside. Maybe this was the housekeeper's room. “Jeanne?” I called in a low voice. There was no response.

I stood motionless an instant before feeling myself driven forward by an irresistible impulse.
What am I doing?
I thought as I stepped through the doorway. Heavy curtains blocked the outside light, like in the other rooms. The only illumination came from a few small lamps scattered around on low tables.

I stepped into the room and softly closed the door behind me. I knew it was insane. But the rational part of my brain had lost the battle, and I was now on autopilot, trespassing in someone's house in order to satisfy my curiosity. My skin felt like it was being pricked by a million tiny adrenaline darts as I began to look around.

To my right, bookcases surrounded a gray marble fireplace. Above its mantel hung two enormous swords, crossed above the hilts. The other walls were hung with framed photographs, some in black-and-white and others in color. They were all portraits.

There seemed to be no sense to the collection. Some of the people in them were old, some young. A few pictures looked as if they were taken fifty years ago, and others looked contemporary. The only thing tying them together was that they were all candid: The subjects didn't know their picture was being taken.
Weird collection,
I thought, shifting my gaze to the other side of the room.

In one corner stood a massive four-poster bed hung with translucent white cloth. I walked toward it to take a closer look. Through the gauzy fabric I could see the shape of a man lying on the bed. My heart froze.

Not daring to breathe, I pulled the curtain aside.

It was Vincent. He was lying above the covers, fully clothed, on his back with his arms to his sides. And he didn't look like he was sleeping. He looked like he was dead.

I lifted a hand and touched his arm. It was as cold and hard as a store mannequin's. Recoiling, I cried, “Vincent?” He didn't move. “Oh my God,” I whispered, horrified, and then my eyes fixed on a framed photo sitting on the table next to his bed. It was of me.

My heart stopped in my chest, and holding my hand to my throat, I backed away until my shoulders hit the marble chimney and I let out a terrified scream. Just then, the door burst open and an overhead light switched on. Jules stood in the doorway. “Hi, Kate,” he said ominously, and then, turning the light back off, he nodded and said, “Looks like the game's up, Vince.”

“YOU'LL HAVE TO COME WITH ME.” JULES WORE A
grim expression. When he realized that I was incapable of movement, he took my arm and led me toward the door.

“But Jules,” I said, my shock worn off enough to allow me to speak, “Vincent's dead!”

Jules turned to me and stared. I must have looked like a trauma victim. I know I sounded like one, my voice coming out all quivery.

“No, he's not. He's fine.” He took my hand and pulled me into the hallway. I jerked it back.

“Listen to me, Jules,” I said, starting to sound hysterical, “I touched him. His skin is cold and hard. He's dead!”

“Kate,” he said, sounding almost annoyed, “I can't talk to you about this right now. But you have to come with me.” He took a gentle hold of my wrist and began leading me down the hallway.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where should I take her?” he asked himself. It wasn't in a pondering tone, like people use when they ask a question they already know the answer to. It sounded like he didn't know and expected someone else to answer.

My eyes widened. Jules was crazy. Maybe he had been brain-damaged in the subway wreck, I thought. Maybe he was criminally insane and had murdered Vincent and left him on his bed, and now he was taking me somewhere to kill me, too. My thoughts were spinning out of control: I was now in slasher-film mode. Terrified, I tried to yank my hand from his grasp, but his grip tightened.

“I'm taking you to Charlotte's room,” he said, answering his own question.

“Who's Charlotte?” I asked, my voice wavering.

“I'm
not
trying to scare her!” Jules said, coming to a stop. He turned to me, looking exasperated. “Listen, Kate. I know you had a shock in there, but your being in that room is completely your own fault. Not mine. Now I'm going to take you somewhere to calm down, and I'm not going to hurt you.”

“Can I just leave?”

“No.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. I couldn't help myself. I was too confused and frightened to be calm, and too horrified that I was crying to look at him: Looking weak or fragile was the last thing I wanted. I stared at the floor.

“What now?” he said, dropping my hand. “Kate? Kate?” His rough manner softened. “Kate.”

I met his eyes as I wiped my tears away with shaking fingers.

“Oh my God, I've terrified you,” he said, taking his first good look at me. He stepped backward. “I've done this all wrong. I'm such an idiot.”
Be careful,
I told myself,
he might just be acting
.
But he's sure doing a believable job with the remorse.

“Okay, let me explain”—he hesitated—“as much as I can. I'm not going to hurt you. I swear, Kate. And I promise Vincent will be fine. It's not what it seems. But I just need to talk to the others—the other people who live here—before I can let you leave.”

I nodded. Jules was acting a lot saner than he had a few minutes before. And he was looking so apologetic that I almost (but not quite) felt sorry for him.
Even if I want to run,
I thought,
I can't get past the security gate outside
.

He reached his hand toward me, this time in a peaceful way, as if he wanted to place it comfortingly on my forearm, but I recoiled.

“Okay. It's okay,” he soothed, raising his hands in the air in an
I surrender
gesture. “I won't touch you again.”

He looked really upset now. “I know,” he said, speaking to the air, “I'm a total moron,” and began walking down the hallway toward the foyer. “Please follow me, Kate,” he said in a downcast voice.

I followed him. What other choice did I have?

He led me up the winding double staircase to the second floor and down a hallway. Opening a door to a darkened room, he flicked on the lights and stayed in the hallway as I walked in. “Make yourself comfortable. I might be a while,” he said, avoiding my eyes. He pulled the door closed behind me. The lock clicked.

“Hey!” I yelled, grabbing the handle and twisting it. It was definitely locked.

“I
had
to lock it. We can't just have her wandering around the house.” Jules was talking to himself again, as his footsteps grew faint.

There was nothing more that I could do, besides leaping out the second-floor window and scaling the front gate.
That's just
not
going to happen,
I thought, and resigned myself to the fact that I was powerless to do anything else until someone unlocked the door.

You could have done worse for a prison,
I thought, looking around. The walls were lined with a patterned rose-colored silk, and heavy mint green drapes were tied back on either side of the windows, which had upper panes in the shape of hearts. Delicate painted bedroom furniture was arranged around the edges of the room. I sat down on a silk-upholstered daybed.

My shaking calmed, and after a long while I let myself stretch out and put my head on a cushion, drawing my legs up off the floor. I shut my eyes, just for a second, and the effects of the stress and fear had their way with my brain. I was out like a light.

It must have been hours later when I awoke. I could see a night sky approaching dawn through the window, and for one delirious moment I thought I was back in my Brooklyn bedroom.

Then my eyes flicked upward to a large chandelier with arms ending in impossibly delicate glass flowers. The ceiling was painted to look like a cloudy sky edged with fat baby angels carrying armloads of ribbons and flowers.

For a second, I didn't know where I was. Then, remembering, I sat up.

“You're awake,” said a voice from across the room. I looked over to find its source. It was the girl from the café with the cropped blond hair, the one who had saved me from being crushed by the falling stone.
What is she doing here?
I thought.

She sat curled up in an armchair next to an ornate stone fireplace. Slowly and hesitantly she unfolded herself and walked carefully toward me.

The light from the chandelier shone through her hair, making it glow like burnished bronze. Her cheeks and lips were the color of the velvety pink roses in Mamie's country garden. High cheekbones set off her beautiful eyes, their irises a bewitching green.

The girl stood next to me now, and timidly held out a hand to take my own. “Kate,” she said with a shy voice, squeezing my hand and letting it go. “I'm Charlotte.” I sat on the edge of the daybed, looking up at her in awe.

“You're the one who saved my life,” I murmured.

Laughing, she pulled up a chair to sit in front of me. “That wasn't really me.” She smiled. “I mean, it was me, but I'm not responsible for saving your life. It's kind of complicated,” she said, crossing her legs impishly. Around her neck hung a leather cord with a silver teardrop-shaped pendant.

So this is the girl Vincent was so close to,
I thought with dismay, my eyes traveling from the necklace back to her elegant face. She was around my age, but a bit younger. Vincent had said she was just a friend. I couldn't help wondering how close they had been.

“Welcome to my room,” she said.

My heart fell.
She lives in his house?

“It's stunning,” I managed to eke out.

“I like to surround myself with beauty,” she said, flashing me an embarrassed smile.

Her boyish haircut and long, thin figure, dressed in tight black jeans and faded striped T-shirt, couldn't disguise her striking feminine beauty. Although it looked like she was attempting to do just that.
She doesn't even have to try, and she's breathtaking,
I thought, mentally surrendering as I realized I would never have been able to compete with Charlotte.

I couldn't speak, my throat was closed so tightly with jealousy over the thought of this girl getting to see Vincent every day. Of her waking up in this beautiful room and knowing that Vincent was there, in the same house as her.

And then I remembered how he had looked in the bed downstairs, and I tried to shake myself out of my pettiness. Even though Jules said he wasn't dead, he had sure seemed dead to me. I didn't know what to think anymore. But being jealous of this girl wasn't going to help anything.

“What happened to Vincent?” I asked.

“Ah. The million-euro question,” she said softly. “And the one I've been specifically requested not to answer. Apparently the boys don't trust me. Discretion and tact are not among my strong points. However, they asked me to stay here with you, in case you freaked out and tried to run away once you woke up.” She hesitated, waiting. “So . . . are you going to freak and run?”

“No,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I mean, I don't think so.” And then, alarmed, I blurted, “My grandparents! They'll be panicking! I've been gone all night!”

“No, they won't,” she said, smiling. “We texted them from your phone that you were spending the night with a friend.”

My relief was replaced by a chilling thought. “So I can't leave? Are you keeping me prisoner?”

“That makes it sound a bit melodramatic,” she said.

Her eyes looked as if they were used to taking much in, while giving little away. The eyes of an older woman reflecting the spirit of a little girl. “You saw things you shouldn't have. Now we have to decide how to handle the situation. You know . . . like damage control. You're the one who took the bite out of the apple, Kate. Although with a serpent that handsome, I can't say I blame you.”

“You're not going to hurt me?” I asked.

“You answer that question,” she said, and placed her fingertips on my arm. A warm rivulet of peace seemed to flow from her touch, and I was suffused with tranquillity.

“What are you doing?” I asked, looking at the spot where her skin touched mine. If I wasn't feeling so relaxed, I'm sure I would have leaped to my feet in dismay at the weirdness of her gesture. She didn't say a thing, but the corners of her mouth curved up slightly and she removed her hand.

I looked her steadily in the eye and asked, “No one else is going to hurt me either?”

“I'll make sure they don't.”

There was a knock at the door. Charlotte rose. “It's time.”

She held out her arm for me to link mine through. I couldn't help but glance at the pendant again, and hesitated.

“What's wrong?” she asked, and touched the silver teardrop.

Something on my face must have told her, because her expression changed as she said, “Vincent told me you picked out my necklace. I'm glad he had you there—I never know what the boys are going to come up with.” She smiled and pressed my hand in a friendly gesture. “Vincent's like my brother, Kate. There is absolutely nothing between us . . . except a long history of boring birthday presents. You broke my losing streak. It's the first time in years he's given me something besides
his
favorite recent CD.”

She laughed, and the jealousy that had been pricking me like needles eased a little. She certainly spoke of him like someone would a brother. I took her arm.

As we made our way to the door, I noticed that her walls were hung with the same jumble of photographs that I had seen in Vincent's room. But this collection was set in pretty painted wood-and-enamel frames and attached to the wall with ribbons.

“Who are those people?” I asked.

Her eyes flicked casually in the direction I was looking, and leading me through the door, she said, “Them? Well, Kate, though I can't take credit for saving your life, those are the people I
did
save.”