Page 21 of Redline Communion

“Only to anyone with eyes.”

One of the fabric women smiles before Helena looks at her, then remembers she has fabric to arrange.

I catch the whisper while Odette is pinning something near my ankle. Helena leans toward the woman beside her, voice low enough that I’m clearly not supposed to hear it.

“—still won’t answer the door for anyone. Not since the family got word about what’s happening with the boy—”

“Which boy?”

The question leaves my mouth before I decide whether asking it is smart.

Everybody stops.

Even Odette, who has been treating my body like a deadline for the last twenty minutes.

Helena’s face changes while I’m watching it, not much, just enough to let me know she’s searching for the version of this conversation that ends with me accepting whatever she says next.

“Nothing, Miss Lorelei. Arms up, please. We’re not finished.”

“My arms are already up. Which boy?”

“I don’t know what you think you heard.”

“You said a family got word about something happening with a boy. I heard all the important nouns.”

Odette suddenly needs to inspect a pin she placed five minutes ago. The woman at the dress form lifts the same piece of fabric, puts it down, then lifts it again.

Nobody is going to answer me.

I can see it moving through the room, and it isn’t confusion.

It’s coordination.

Carmen stands so fast the chair legs scrape the floor.

“I need air.”

She says it to the room without looking at anyone and heads for the door.

I watch her leave, and not because leaving is suspicious. In this house, leaving a room is one of the healthiest choices anybody can make.

It’s the way she does it.

Head down. Purse forgotten. One hand pressed against her middle like she’s keeping something from coming up.

I know that walk.

I saw her do it once in a grocery store four years ago. Some woman near the freezer cases said a word that meant nothing to me and everything to my mother, and Carmen left a full cart in the middle of the aisle and walked straight outside. Frozen peas, yogurt, a carton of eggs, all abandoned. She didn’t tell me why for two days, and when she finally did, the explanation was so thin I could see through it.

“Mom.”

She doesn’t stop.

I step off Odette’s platform.

“Miss Lorelei, the pins—”

“I’ll bring them back.”