Death by Denim Read Online Free PDF Page A

and made me feel special when I was with him. And more than that, we understood each other. We had been through hell and back together. How could she ask me to turn my back on that?
    A familiar ache swelled in my throat, and my chest felt at once heavy and hollow. I didn’t want to admit it, but maybe my mom was right. Seth was gone. For his safety, as well as our own, I could never see him again. Thinking about him all the time was like slow torture. Whether I liked it or not, I had to let go of his memory.
    I pushed off of the bed and padded into the bathroom, where I took a long, hot shower, washed my hair, and had a good, long cry. I hoped that it would get easier as time went by.
     
    Mom woke when I came out of the bathroom and headed in for a shower of her own. By the time we were both dressed in our new clothes, my stomach was starting to growl. We hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before and that seemed like a long, long time ago.
    I sat at the desk, thumbing through the guest services book the hotel had left in our room. “Can we order room service?” I asked. “I’m starving.”
    Mom paused from combing out her wet hair. “I saw a patisserie on the corner this morning. Why don’t we go grab something?”
    “Is that okay?”
    She picked up the room card and the roll of euros Lévêque had left for us and stuffed them both in her pocket. “Sure. We can cut through the hotel lobby to minimize exposure.”
    I tossed the amenities book aside and bounced off the bed. “How long until we have to meet at the park?”
    “Not until after he gets off work at five. Another couple of hours. We have time.” She opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”
    I was feeling a little better since my cry in the shower. Not much, but a little. I wondered if it showed, this monumental decision I’d made. Would Mom notice? I caught a glimpse of myself in the elevator mirror as we rode down to the lobby. As far as I could see, I looked exactly the same—only in more expensive clothes. You know, the kind that real athletes wear: a layered racer tank and matching shorts, both made from that lightweight fabric that’s supposed to wick the moisture away from your skin. At least that was different. I suppose that was the best I could expect.
    In the lobby, we had just started walking to the door when the desk clerk called after Mom.
    “Pardon, Madame.” He waved an envelope at her. “Il y a un message pour vous.”
    The smile froze on her face. She thanked him, and accepted the message with about as much enthusiasm as she might have taken a vial of toxin. She turned it over to read the front and that little muscle at the side of her lips started twitching again.
    “Quand est-il arrivé?” she asked. When did it arrive?
    The clerk started speaking rapid-fire French, apologizing like he thought he was in trouble. He said that he had just begun his shift a short time ago and didn’t know when it had arrived, only that it was there when he got in. “Je ne sais pas,” he kept saying, “je ne sais pas.”
    Mom managed a smile and thanked the clerk, assuring him that all was well. But I could tell she was shaken. She tucked the envelope into her pocket and suggested we use the restroom before we left for our day about town. If I hadn’t already guessed something was up, I knew then; we weren’t headed “about town.” We were just going to the patisserie next door. We detoured to the ladies’ room, where she locked the door and leaned up against it. Gingerly, she tore open the envelope and read the note inside. For the first time I could remember, she let her blank facade slip. Her eyes grew wide and her lips turned down, parting just enough to draw in a gasp. She stole a quick glance at her watch.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “I need to go. Alone.” She pushed the door open to one of the stalls and started ripping the note into tiny pieces, letting them drop into the toilet. “Do you remember our meeting