29. Paris Young

                                    

                                          


                          
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                 WHEN THE PHONE RANG THE MORNING AFTER CHRISTMAS, Paris reached over Rory's end of the bed to pick it up.
                          
                "Doctor Young?"
                          
                "One moment," Paris said, slipping out of bed so she wouldn't disturb Rory. Once she had pulled her robe more tightly around herself, she closed the balcony doors behind her and leaned out against the railing. "Is everything okay, Nurse Connie?" 
                          
                "The blood results for Tasha Tribeca came back."
                          
                Paris glanced back through the glass doors. Where Rory was sleeping.
                          
               "Did you cross-examine them with Rory Preston's?" Paris asked.
                          
               "I did."
                          
               "And mine?"
                          
               Nurse Connie said, "Positive. For both. A twenty-five percent heritage for both of you."
                          
              This was a personal decision, Doctor Young, and one day I hope you'll understand why. 
                          
               It had been on purpose. All of it—it had been on purpose.
                          
               From the day she had first met Paris and known who she was instantly.
                          
               My name is Evelyn Tribeca, and my daughter is dying. 
                          
              And hadn't Paris thought there was a chord inside of Tasha that struck her so familiarly? So deeply? It hadn't been just her story. It hadn't just been her words.
                          
              But Paris still didn't understand.
                          
              They had died—they had both died.
                          
              "Thank you, Nurse Connie," Paris whispered, and she hung up.
                          
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              "I NEED TO SEE THE KING," PARIS TOLD THE GUARD.
                          
              "Nobody sees the king without an appointment."
                          
              "It's important," Paris said desperately. "I need to speak with him."
                          
              "I don't care," the guard said stiffly, his mustache twitching. "Nobody sees him or I lose my—"
                          
             Paris shoved the doors to the throne room open.
                          
             When the king saw her, his eyes flared with anger.
                          
            In a deep, commanding voice, he said, "You can't—"
                          
             "I need to talk about my sister," Paris said, lifting her chin.
                          
             The guard, who had latched his meaty fingers around her arm, let go at the nod of the king. Once the grand doors had slammed shut, the king regarded her coolly.
                          
             "London," Paris spit out. "Did you even know her name?"
                          
             "Your sister," the king said coldly. 
                          
             With tears in her eyes, Paris said, "My sister had a baby."
                          
             "The baby died."