Death by Denim Read Free Page A

we’re lucky, they’ll take us into the station office to make sure I’m all right.”
    “But . . .” One of the cardinal rules of being on the run was to not draw attention to yourself. Fainting on the train was sure to attract attention. On the other hand, there weren’t many people around, so our exposure would be limited. And really? What alternative did we have?
    We stood.
    “Oh, and one more thing,” Mom whispered. “We’re French.”
    At once I understood why she would be the one fainting; Mom and I could both speak French fluently, but my accent was better. When I was just a kid, she had enrolled me in all sorts of language classes because—according to her—I had a gift with languages. She said if you teach a kid a foreign language when they’re young enough, they can learn to speak without an accent. The result was that I could speak several languages like a native and a lot more at least conversationally. French was one of the native languages. So I was going to be the mouthpiece. I hoped I was up to it. I straightened. “Oui, Maman,” I murmured.
    I strolled down the aisle as she said, trying not to look tense as I waited to hear the thud of her dropping to the ground behind me.
    I was almost to the door when it happened—only when she fell, it was more like a crash than a thud. Even though I had been expecting her to faint, the noise truly startled me. Which I suppose was good, because when I whirled around to see if she was okay, my reaction was genuine.
    “Maman!” I cried. “Maman!” She lay sprawled between the seats, her face completely slack. I bent over her and tugged on her hand—as if that would have done any good had she truly fainted. She moaned and rolled her head to the side. I dropped her hand, eyes widening in shock. Something dark and wet matted her hair to the side of her skull. Blood?
    The conductor appeared out of nowhere, asking if everything was all right. I turned my eyes to him numbly, not sure what to say. We were supposed to be acting, but the blood was most definitely real. “Ma mère est blessée,” I said. It was the truth. My mother was hurt.
    He whipped a walkie-talkie from his belt to call for assistance and then turned his attention back to me. “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” he asked. What happened?
    Again, I could truthfully say I didn’t know. I could guess; she’d probably hit her head when she fell. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure. Had she planned it to make her faint seem more convincing?
    Another man in a train uniform arrived, carrying a first aid kit. He set it on one of the seats and helped the conductor sit Mom up. She moaned again and blinked her eyes, but held her head fairly steady. I sighed with relief.
    “Vous allez bien?” the second guy asked her. Are you all right?
    She nodded weakly and allowed him to dab at her head to clean it up. Either she was a really good actress or she was a little dazed to see the amount of blood on the gauze when he pulled it away. I thought she might faint again, for real this time.
    Another official-looking person crowded into the aisle behind us. She wore a pinched expression and held a clipboard in her hands. Bingo. Damage control. She would be the one responsible to make sure that the station had no liability for mom’s injury.
    The gauze guy finished cleaning up the wound, which turned out to be rather small, even though it had bled a lot. He offered to bandage it, but Mom declined. She’d do just as well just holding a compress to her head until it stopped bleeding, she said.
    I turned to the clipboard lady and asked if there was someplace my mother could rest.
    She was only too willing to comply. “Absolument,” she said. Absolutely.
    Clipboard Lady showed us into a windowless office crowded with a desk and a couple of chairs. She said that Mom could rest there as long as she needed.
    “Merci.” I lowered Mom onto one of the chairs. Still holding the gauze pad to her head, she drooped forward