The Night Has Teeth Read Online Free PDF Page B

patent leather pumps. The very sight of her makes me
straighten my posture.
    “Will Monsieurs Emerson and Lewis be staying for
dinner?” she asks in French. “If so, you ought to inform
chef.”
    Mister Lewis is my dad. It sounds weird hearing her
address me that way.
    “No, Madame Lefèvre,” she replies staidly. “They
were just leaving.”
    The lady nods her approval. “Good evening,
gentlemen.”
    As she turns on her heels and pads away quietly, we
remain silent. Josh leans back on his elbows staring at Madison as
I close the sketchbook and tuck it safely away into my backpack.
She holds his gaze, defiant.
    “We were just leaving?” he asks with a
grin.
    She waves her hand dramatically and puts on a snooty
accent to match. “I grow weary of your company.”
    The grin fades as he pushes off the railing. I stand
and sling my backpack across my shoulder. Meanwhile, Josh crosses
over to her, puts a hand on her shoulder and leans down. Everything
about the gesture is casual, and by that alone I’m sure he’s done
it a dozen times before. But he stops short of planting a kiss her
on the cheek and hovers a breath away instead, like he just
remembered something. Their eyes meet and then she laughs.
    “If you’re going to be all European, get it
right.”
    Whereby she takes hold of his shoulders and plants
air kisses on both his cheeks. He straightens up and walks away
quickly as she continues to blow kisses at us.
    “Au revoir, mes
amis !” she
exclaims.
    It takes an effort for me to keep at Josh’s
heels.
    “So, which way are you heading?” I ask as we step
outside onto the walkway of the well-manicured front
lawn.
    He turns to face me but keeps walking away.
“Anywhere but here, I guess. ’Night.”
    I can take a hint. Although I’ve paused to take
possession of my bike from the wrought iron fence surrounding the
estate, he heads off on foot without me. I push past the gate and
pedal in the other direction toward home, stopping at a Quick for a
burger. When I get back to the flat, the butcher shop below is
closed for the night. I push my bicycle up the set of wooden steps
that are just wide enough for me to pass through. The small space
is filled with a haunting violin tune. I recognize the melody from
childhood music lessons. One of the few classical songs I haven’t
heard a million times since. As I take out my keys on the landing,
the music stops abruptly. My hand hovers at the lock and a feeling
of apprehension washes over me. Just as I’m about to slip the key
in, the door opens.
    Standing in front of me is a guy in his
mid-twenties. He presses his arms into the doorframe, waiting
expectantly. He wears a black popover shirt and black slacks.
Although he has the same coloring as me, that’s where the
similarities end. His chestnut hair is wavy without being unruly.
His eyes have a kind of amber hue compared with the mud brown of
mine. He also has the physique of a model, while I’m just tall,
lanky, awkward. Judging by how he dresses, he has more style in his
little finger than I could manage with a lifetime subscription
to Esquire . I
suddenly feel like a slob in my jeans and hoodie.
    “Who are you?” I ask.
    He eyes me suspiciously. When he speaks, his voice
is gruff and roughly woven with a French accent. “I live here.”
    Something about the way he claims the space around
him makes me feel defensive. Completely out of character, I say,
“Like hell you do.”
    He looks downright hostile, like he isn’t used to
being contested, as he glares at me. I manage to stay calm as his
jaw muscles clench. It doesn’t look like he’ll give up his stance
at the doorway anytime soon, so I try to peer past him.
    “Where’s Amara?”
    “In the bath,” he tells me, his eyes never leaving
my face.
    “Are you going to let me in or what? If you really
lived here, you’d know that I do too.”
    He lets out a scornful breath. “You don’t live here.
You’re a visitor.”
    For a moment I think that