Heavy drapes at the window blocked the daylight. A delicate chandelier, which looked like it had originally been set with candles instead of the flame-shaped electric bulbs it now held, threw out just enough light to illuminate walls that were crowded with paintings. A dozen faces of bad-tempered, centuries-old French aristocrats frowned down at me.
A servants' door hidden in the back wall swung open, and Vincent walked through. He set a massive porcelain teapot in the shape of a dragon and a matching cup onto the table in front of me next to a plate of paper-thin cookies. The fragrance of strong tea and almonds wafted up from the silver tray.
"Sugar and caffeine. Best medicine in the world," Vincent said as he sat down in an upholstered armchair a few feet away.
I tried to pick up the heavy teapot, but my hands were shaking so hard I only succeeded in making it clatter against the cup. "Here, let me do that," he said as he leaned over and poured. "Jeanne, our housekeeper, makes the best tea. Or so I've heard. I'm more a coffee man myself."
I blanched at his small talk. "Okay, stop. Just stop right there." My teeth were chattering: I couldn't tell if it was my shattered nerves or the dawning fear that something was very wrong. "Vincent . . . whoever you are." I'm in his house and I don't even know his last name, I realized in a flash before continuing. "Your friend just died a little while ago, and you are talking to me about"--my voice broke--"about coffee?"
A defensive expression registered on his face, but he remained silent.
"Oh my God," I said softly, and began crying again. "What is wrong with you?"
The room was silent. I could hear the seconds ticking away on an enormous grandfather clock in the corner. My breathing calmed, and I wiped my eyes, attempting to compose myself.
"It's true. I'm not very good at showing my emotions," Vincent conceded finally.
"Not showing your emotions is one thing. But running off after your friend is demolished by a subway train?"
In a low, carefully measured tone he said, "If we had stayed, we would have had to talk to the police. They would have questioned both of us, as they must have done with the witnesses who stayed. I wanted to avoid that"--he paused--"at all costs."
Vincent's cold shell was back, or else I had just begun noticing it again. Numbness spread up my arms and throughout my body as I realized what he was saying. "So you're"--I choked--"you're what? A criminal?"
His dark, brooding eyes were drawing me toward him while my mind was telling me to run away. Far away.
"What are you? Wanted? Wanted for what? Did you steal all the paintings in this room?" I realized I was yelling and lowered my voice. "Or is it something worse?"
Vincent cleared his throat to buy time. "Let's just say that I'm not the kind of guy your mother would want you hanging around with."
"My mom's dead. My dad, too." The words escaped my lips before I could stop them.
Vincent closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his forehead as if he were in pain. "Recently?"
"Yes."
He nodded solemnly, as if it all made sense.
"I'm sorry, Kate."
However bad a person he is, he cares about me. The thought crossed my mind so abruptly that I couldn't stop it from triggering a reaction. My eyes filled with tears. I picked up the cup of tea and raised it to my lips.
The hot liquid slid from my throat to my stomach, and its calming effect was immediate. My thoughts felt clearer. And weirdly enough, I felt more in control of the situation. He knows who I am now, even if I don't know the first thing about him.
My revelation seemed to have shaken him. Vincent's either struggling to hold himself together, I thought, or to hold something back. I decided to take advantage of this apparent moment of weakness to figure something out. "Vincent, if you're in such a . . . dangerous situation, why in the world would you try to be friends with me?"
"I told you, Kate, I had seen you around the neighborhood"--he weighed his words carefully--"and you seemed like someone I would want to know. It was probably a bad idea. But I obviously wasn't thinking."
As he spoke, his voice turned from warm to icicle cold. I couldn't tell if he was angry with himself for getting me involved in whatever mess he was