Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,19

before giving our depositions. The official investigation had begun by that point, and the officer who eventually turned up explained that they had discovered a medical card in the driver’s wall et saying that he was epileptic. Once they contacted his wife, she admitted that he had recently stopped taking his medication.

“He was unconscious by the time I reached the vehicle,” Vincent confirmed.

“He was unconscious, sitting at the wheel?” the officer asked, scribbling in a notepad.

“No. He had slumped over and was lying down on the seat. His foot was no longer on the accelerator.” A row of three small butterfly bandages decorated Vincent’s forehead, the result of a paramedic’s ministrations while we sat in the back of the cop car. When the officer looked up from his writing, Vincent tested the wound gingerly with his fingers.

The man saw the gesture and closed his notebook. “I’ve been instructed not to keep you long. And to apologize for the wait before we got to you.

It was inexcusable.”

From the way the man had bustled in all of a sudden, stumbling over himself to make us comfortable and offering up restricted information on the investigation, I assumed that Jean-Baptiste had been in touch with one of his police department contacts.

“Even though you have repeatedly refused to be taken to an emergency room, I do think you should see a doctor,” the man continued, looking concerned. “If for nothing else, you could use a few stitches on that head wound.”

“Thanks, Officer. At this point I just want to get home. This whole thing has really shaken me up.” I tried to refrain from smiling as Vincent played up his I’m-just-a-nineteen-year-old-regular-guy act.

The policeman nodded and, resting his pen on his notebook, walked around the desk to face us. He extended his hand, but when Vincent winced at the effort of raising his arm, he quickly withdrew it and instead clapped him carefully on the shoulder. “I just want to commend you for your heroic actions today, Monsieur Dutertre.”

I pursed my lips to stop another grin. Vincent must be a pro by now at creating random false identities at the drop of a hat.

“Promise me you’ll convince him to see a doctor,” the policeman said, turning to me. “Today.” I nodded, and we followed him out of the office and through the mazelike préfecture, shaking hands again once we were in the lobby.

“Let’s go,” Vincent said as we reached the front door, and heading down the building’s grand staircase, we jumped directly into the backseat of a waiting car.

“Gaspard notified us of your acrobatic feats, Vin. Very James Bond. Nicely done,” Ambrose said as he pulled away from the curb. Vincent slumped down to put his head on my shoulder. “How you feeling, man? Clinic or home?”

“Feeling rough. I probably cracked a rib, but I don’t need a doctor.” Nice, I thought, feeling slightly stung. For me the rib was bruised. When would Vincent stop trying to protect me from the harsher realities of his existence?

“When are you dormant?” Ambrose asked.

“Got a couple of weeks,” Vincent said.

Ambrose peered at Vincent’s face in the rearview mirror. “Can that head wound wait till then?”

“I’m fine. Seriously.”

Ambrose shrugged. “Too bad we don’t scar. That doozy would amp your toughness quotient by about a hundred percent. Have the girls swooning in the streets.”

I leaned forward to give his shoulder a playful push.

“Not that that’s what Vincent’s trying for, of course,” Ambrose backpedaled, holding one hand up in surrender. “It’s just the first thing that would have crossed my mind. If I were in his place.”

I shook my head and laughed. “Incorrigible. You are truly incorrigible, Ambrose.” He smiled his blinding white smile. “I try, Katie-Lou.”

Back at La Maison, a group of revenants were assembled for an informational meeting on numas with Violette, and as we arrived everyone gathered around to hear the details about the dramatic rescue. What with the mass inquisition and the large buffet lunch that Jeanne had laid out, it wasn’t until late afternoon that Vincent and I finally got a moment of peace.

We were settled in his room, sprawled on the couch in front of a crackling fire. Vincent’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be dozing off.

I didn’t want to disturb him, but something had been bothering me ever since the accident that morning. “I know you’re tired, but can we talk?” I asked, brushing his hair off his face with my fingers.

Vincent opened one eye and looked at me warily. “Should I be