Until I Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

patterns under the massive glass-and-steel ceiling. Our small group of six stood dwarfed in the colossal space, watching Charlotte and Charles board the ultramodern high-speed TGV train that would take them from Paris to Nice in just under six hours. Ambrose loaded a small mountain of suitcases onto the luggage compartment of their carriage as the twins leaned in for hugs from Jules, Vincent, and me and more formal cheek-kisses from Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste.
As a digitized woman’s voice announced the train’s imminent departure, Charles broke away from Ambrose’s crushing bear hug and climbed onto the train without looking back. Charlotte brushed away tears as she turned. “You’ll return before long,” stated Jean-Baptiste, a rare trace of emotion tingeing his voice. She nodded mutely, looking like she was struggling not to burst into full-fledged sobbing.
“Email … and phone!” I reminded her. “We’ll keep in touch—I promise!” I threw her a kiss with both hands as she stepped onto the train and disappeared behind the darkened windows. Vincent draped his arm supportively around my shoulders. I turned so that the twins wouldn’t see me cry.
Charlotte was the only girl I had gotten close to since we moved to Paris almost a year ago. It was my fault: I hadn’t actively been looking for friends. For half of that time I had been a hermit. Then along came Vincent, and it was like he brought a prepackaged group of friends with him. It hadn’t escaped my attention that I preferred to spend time with the undead rather than the living. I tried not to think about what that said about me.
The sound of the conductor’s whistle pierced the frigid air. The train shuddered once and then pulled away. Our mismatched group waved at the darkened windows before wordlessly ambling back toward the station entrance. Everyone seemed lost in thought as Vincent’s phone started to ring. He checked the display and answered, “ Bonjour , Geneviève.” After listening for a moment, he stopped in his tracks, his face ashen. “Oh, no. No.”
Hearing his mournful tone, everyone froze and watched him, waiting. “Just stay there. We’ll be right over.” He switched the phone off and said, “Geneviève’s husband died this morning. He went to bed last night and never woke up.”
The group inhaled as one and stood there, stunned. “Oh, my poor Geneviève,” said Gaspard finally, breaking the silence.
“Has she notified—” Jean-Baptiste began.
“The doctor already certified Philippe as dead, and his body was picked up by the coroner. She would have called earlier, but was afraid that if Charlotte knew, she wouldn’t have gotten on the train.”
Jean-Baptiste nodded.
Although Geneviève lived halfway across town and wasn’t often at La Maison, she and Charlotte had been friends for decades. Charlotte had once told me that it was hard hanging out with guys all the time. Before I had arrived, Geneviève was the only girlfriend she had, and Charlotte would run off to her house every time she and Charles had a brother-sister spat.
“She hoped that a couple of us could come over to help with the funeral plans. Kate, do you want to come with me?” Vincent asked. I nodded.
“I’ll come,” Jules and Ambrose said as one.
“Ambrose, I had hoped to have your services moving Violette and Arthur into their rooms,” Gaspard said. “But of course …” He held up a quivering finger, as if he was unsure of the fairness of his request.
Ambrose hesitated, torn, and then relented. “No, you’re right, Gaspard. I’ll follow you back to the house. Give Geneviève my love, and tell her I’ll stop by later,” he said to us, and then, shifting his motorcycle helmet to his other hand, clapped Vincent on the shoulder and strode out, with Gaspard and Jean-Baptiste following close behind.
Jules, Vincent, and I hopped into one of the taxis parked outside the station and within fifteen minutes were at Geneviève’s house on a tiny street