31. Paris Young

                                    

                                          


                          
✺✺✺

                          
             PARIS KNOCKED ON THE DOOR.
                          
            There was silence on the other end.
                          
            "Dhonielle?" she called out, and the fear grew like the roots of a tree in her chest. "Cat? Are you two alright?"
                          
            Eavesdropping.
                          
            They had said they would be eavesdropping, right outside.
                          
            "Someone fired a gun," Rory breathed, and the colour drained from her face. "Amanda."
                          
           Paris rattled the door knob. Locked. "Who's Amanda?"
                          
           "Billie Larson's sister."
                          
           Paris froze, remembering the car accident that she had read on the news from a couple of years ago. Billie—Declan's first victim. She had been intoxicated behind the wheel of a car, and the crash had ended with no survivors.
                          
           "Why is she here?" Paris whispered.
                          
           Rory shoved her shoulder against the door. "Revenge," she said. "She can't take it out on Declan, and I'm the next best option."
                          
           "And she's been . . . she's been following you?"
                          
           "Following me. Stalking me," said Rory grimly. 
                          
           "Cat!"  Paris cried out again. "Dhonielle!" 
                          
            The corridor was painfully silent for one moment. Two. And then Paris heard the sound of weeping—a little girl. 
                          
            Her heart stuttered in her chest.
                          
           "Cat," Paris whispered against the door. "Is that you?"
                          
           The sound of muffled sobbing was distinct. Familiar.
                          
           "She—she—"
                          
           "Cat, I need you to breathe, okay?" Paris said, even as her blood started to churn. "I need you to tell me what's going on."
                          
            "Dhonielle, she's—she isn't moving."
                          
            Paris's heart kicked her chest. Her stomach lurching. Calm—she could do this. She was at her best when the tension was high, when the pressure was rising.
                          
             "You need to open the door, Cat."
                          
             "I—I can't. I don't know where the key is."
                          
             A breath rushed out of her. "I'm going to need you to tell me exactly what's going on out there. What just happened?"
                          
             "A girl—a girl with red hair. She has a gun, she—she's pointing it at—at the bodyguard. She's pointing it at Simon."
                          
             Paris's heart slammed against her rib cage.
                          
             "Where's Dhonielle?" she breathed.
                          
             "She's . . . I don't think she's breathing."
                          
             Rory used one of her crutches to ram against the door knob. Shattering it. Desperately, Paris's fingertips scrabbled for purchase—digging her hands into the slit between wall and metal, she pulled.