✺✺✺
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.
When the door opened, Paris stumbled into the corridor.
Cat was sitting against the wall. Dhonielle's head was in her lap, and Cat was stroking her hair, tracing the edges of her purple-beaded braids. Crying so hard her entire body shook.
"It's okay," Cat said. "It's gonna be okay."
Paris knew Cat's mother was schizophrenic—It's okay. It's going to be okay. Comfort words. The only way she knew how.
"Shh," Paris said. "I have her. Let me see."
Cat let Paris heave Dhonielle into her arms. Frantically, Paris searched for a bullet wound, for blood, for the entry point.
At the end of the corridor, she saw a blur of red hair.
Amanda.
And—Simon was laying on the floor, propped against the wall. There were red lights flashing through the corridor. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance.
"Where was she shot?" Paris was still searching Dhonielle's small body. Her clothes weren't ripped, her skin was intact. There weren't any visible signs of a wound, but the gunshot—the sound of a gunshot.
Who had been shot?
Horror. Growing horror in her chest.
Simon, slumped against the wall. His fingers pressed shakily over his stomach. He had been shot, but the echo . . . only one bullet had been fired.
Dhonielle—what was wrong with Dhonielle?
There was no time to think.
The moment Rory limped out of the rec room, Amanda raised her gun.
Her red hair glinted under the glaring red lights. Both hands trembled, wrapped tightly around the handle of the gun, but her aim was steady on Paris.
"You need to go," she said. Her voice was harsh, commanding.
"No," Paris said fiercely. "No. She needs me—this little girl needs me. I can't just leave."
Amanda's pale, freckled face shone bright under the flaring lights. Paris heard the unmistakable sound of the safety being turned off. Click. In Paris's arms, Dhonielle stirred.
She wasn't going to leave.
She wasn't going to leave, even if she got shot.
But Rory stepped in front of Paris's kneeling body, spreading her arms wide.
Amanda was slowly approaching, each step shaky, the gun shaking hard enough it seemed to vibrate. The pale colour of her eyes seemed haunted, enraged. Devoid of life, devoid of anything but pure wrath.
Revenge, Rory had said, and Paris understood.
People had different ways of moving on. After London's death, Paris had thrown herself into her work, her studies. To her, academic achievement was a sign of success. It was how she based her value. Paris didn't fail because she couldn't fail—a failure, to her, was the equivalent of being worthless. Her way of moving on may have been self-destructive, but it only ever hurt her.
The problem was that Paris understood.
Fury—it was only natural. After what Declan had done to both their sisters, the things they had faced . . . it seemed only right. The order of things, made right again. Death for death. Equal. In Amanda's perspective, Rory was the price to pay for revenge. Murder—Amanda was ready to murder, as long as her vengeance was delivered.
Don't you remember me? Paris wanted to ask.
She had barely talked to Amanda, but Paris had known Billie. They had even been friends, before Rory had decided to cut off Declan's accusers. And while Paris hadn't rekindled that friendship when her and Rory had ended, she still respected it. Had fond memories of it.
Did Amanda remember when Paris and Billie and Priscilla had sat at a bar downtown, laughing at the sheer fact that they were allowed in?
Did she remember how she had once burrowed into Paris's side during a horror movie?
Did she remember how Billie had once thrown a party in her dorm, and all five of their friends, including Billie's little sister, had sat in a circle playing Truth or Dare?
That night, Amanda had confessed that she was sixteen, and she had never had her first kiss.
What a small, stupid thing to remember.
But now, Paris couldn't think of anything else.
Billie wouldn't want you to do this, she thought. But Billie wasn't here.
"This is my fight," Rory shouted. "You want to hurt me, you can take it out on me. Leave the rest of them alone. I'm your real target here."
"No!" Paris gasped, her grip on Dhonielle tightening.
Rory didn't even look back.
"I want to hurt the people you love," said Amanda in a trembling, furious voice, "just like you hurt my sister. I want you to feel the same way I feel!"
"Good luck," Rory said coldly. "I don't love anyone here."
Something inside of Paris cracked.
"Don't lie!" Amanda screamed, and her voice was choked with tears. "Don't you fucking dare lie, Preston! I know you brought her home. I know she's your girlfriend."
"Not anymore," Rory said in a low, burning voice. "Go ahead and shoot her. I don't care. I don't love her, it won't hurt."
The aim of Amanda's gun faltered—wavered.
"How about you shoot me instead?" Rory said casually. She let both of her crutches fall to the ground, until she was standing at an angle with her thick cast. Her arms opened wide, and though Paris could only see her back, she knew what she was doing.
Offering herself up.
Baring her chest.
A kill shot. That was a kill shot.
You're an idiot, Paris thought, trying to hold back the tide.
I don't love anyone here.
"No," said Amanda, barking out a shaky laugh. "You're going to follow me into the rec room. And then I want my revenge taken out there."
Help—where was the help? The police?
They weren't fast enough.
Paris's voice was strangled. "No! No, you can't, Rory."
In the neon red light, a smile grew on Amanda's face. "No, I think she will, won't you, Rory? Because if you don't, I'll everyone in this fucking corridor. Now, move."
Rory looked back.
At Paris, who thought, Don't do this.
Eyes like burnt sienna. For one searing moment, she stared at Paris as though she was allowing herself to memorize the shape of her face.
Paris blurted out, "I love you."
Rory's expression turned cold, distant. Amanda shoved Rory's shoulder with the barrel of her gun, and Rory stumbled—almost falling.
No, no, no. Now there were tears running down Paris's face.
Rory didn't say anything. She didn't look back again. She only followed Amanda into the rec room, and Amanda shut the door behind them.
Simon was getting to his feet.
Even in the dim red light, Paris could see the dark splatter of paint on the palms of his hands. A bullet wound in his stomach.
"Cat," Paris whispered. "I need you to run. Go! Now, before she comes back out. Run and go get help. Tell the police to come here."
With a tearstained face, Cat ran.
Paris was left rocking Dhonielle in her arms, cradling her head. There was a faint rasp to her breathing, and distantly, like a dream, Paris remembered the hitch in Dhonielle's vitals she had seen weeks ago. Please, she thought. Anything but that.
Helpless. She felt so helpless. Without her medical equipment, there was nothing she could do but hold Dhonielle.
There was nothing she could do but watch her die.
"Dhonielle," Paris choked out. "You have to stay awake. Can you do that? Can you hear me? Can you stay awake?"
"Of course I can, Doc," Dhonielle breathed. "For ten million dollars."
But Paris didn't have ten million dollars, and when Dhonielle's head tipped back against her arm, her eyes were open and glossy with tears that would never fall.
✺✺✺
SCREAMING. THE SOUND OF SCREAMING.
But it wasn't from the room. It wasn't even from inside the corridor. Paris could hear it outside, rapid-fire clicks and trucks screeching to a stop and people, asking questions, demanding answers.
"The paparazzi," Simon said, and the last of the colour drained from his face.
"The paparazzi?" Paris breathed. "But how? I thought we all signed a contract. I thought we all—"
"A breach," said Simon. "There's been a breach."
Rory, Paris thought.
She hadn't said it back. I love you. She had walked in there, coldly, distantly. As though it was true—as though she really didn't care about Paris at all.
"We have to go."
"No," Paris bit out, shuddering. "I need to—I need to stay here—"
She needed to stay with Dhonielle.
Dhonielle was still in her arms. How could she let go? How could she let the little girl slip down to the ground?
It wasn't supposed to go like this.
I don't love her—it won't hurt.
Go ahead and shoot her.
I don't care.
Paris couldn't breathe. Couldn't see beyond the blurriness of her vision. The colours danced around her. Thoughts smearing. Was this what it felt like, to be unraveled? She was raw thread, she was frayed silk. She was falling apart—she was dissolving.
"You have to let her go!" Simon said. "It won't be long now—"
But Paris couldn't let Dhonielle go. She couldn't do anything but pull the little girl tight against her chest, weeping for everything she would never be. And even when the police flooded the corridors, even when the sound of a second gunshot pierced the air, even when the paramedics hauled her onto a stretcher, Paris held tight.
She wasn't ready to let go.
✺✺✺
NEWS CHANNELS AND RADIO STATIONS AND JOURNALISTS WERE hovering outside of the hospital. Clustering around the entrance, around the windows, for any sign of the princess.
Paris was sitting in the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped tightly around her.
It was over. It was over.
Whatever had happened in there, it was over.
They had brought Amanda out in handcuffs. They said she had a gun to her head, her finger on the trigger, when they had found them in the rec room.
But Rory still wasn't back.
Nobody had seen her outside of the hospital.
"You did good, Doctor Young," said Chief Monroe Rodriguez.
But Paris—she couldn't focus. Not when Dhonielle's child-sized body bag was just on the other side of the ambulance.
She had died of heart failure.
Inevitable, they said—nothing could have stopped it.
It had happened too fast, too suddenly. A product of the cancer, rapidly devouring the healthy organs in her body.
Nothing could have stopped it.
Paris should have. She should have, and . . .
Her head snapped back.
The paparazzi had flocked to the glass doors of the hospital, cameras clicking, lights flashing. A disruption.
When the doors opened, there was Rory.
Relief. Sheer, stark, sudden relief.
Paris didn't think she had ever loved anything—or anyone—more than in that moment. She didn't think even the northern lights compared to the way Rory sauntered out of the hospital, as though she hadn't just been locked in a room with someone who wanted to kill her. And the world narrowed right down to that, to Rory.
It was over, and they . . . they were both safe.
"Doctor Young?" said Chief Rodriguez. "Did you hear me?"
But Paris slipped down from the back of the truck. Even though she was still shivering, she let the blanket fall against the snow-covered concrete.
Rory.
She weaved between the throng of paparazzi, twisting like a wraith through the crowd of frenzied journalists and reporters.
"Do you believe your brother was a rapist, Princess?"
"What did Amanda Larson want with you?"
To that, Paris saw Rory whip around. She was being ushered towards an ambulance, where Simon was getting treated, but she stopped so suddenly the paparazzi latched onto her sudden silence.
"Why did Amanda Larson want you in a locked room?"
"Is it true that she has been following you for over a year?"
"Do you think you deserved a confrontation?"
"Did you offer for her to kill you because you still have lingering feelings of remorse?"
Rory's voice rang out cold and tense. "Do you want to know what Amanda wanted with me? She put the gun to my head, and she said, Now you know how it feels. And instead of shooting me, she put the gun against her own temple. She wanted me to watch her kill herself. How's that, assholes?"
"Is there a small part of you that thinks maybe you deserved it?"
Rory had already walked away—she hadn't heard. But the question came from a man right next to Paris, someone with circular glasses and a rugged brown beard.
Red fury grew in her so swiftly she didn't have to hold back.
Paris tapped the man on the shoulder, and when he turned around, she punched him in the face.
"Jesus Christ!" she swore, as the man reeled back.
She had never done that in her life. But it had felt good.
Without waiting, she hurried after Rory, who was now standing next to Simon in the back of another ambulance.
Six feet away, Paris paused.
It was over. It could only get better now.
And . . . and she knew, now.
I love you. Too long—it had taken her too long to realize.
"Rory," Paris called out, barely a breath.
But Rory turned.
On the balcony in Valeria, she had once called Paris the sun. A testament to William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Rise up, beautiful sun. And although Rory had mangled the lines from the play by saying something like, You're the sun, and you're so beautiful you make the fucking moon jealous, Paris's heart had skipped a beat.
If Paris was Juliet, then Rory was Romeo. This was their happy ending, wasn't it? Star-crossed lovers, reunited after death and heartbreak and a murderous vigilante.
"Rory," whispered Paris, and she was crying.
Ice. Rory was ice. There was nothing but dark indifference in her eyes as she looked at Paris.
"Rory?"
Simon shook his head wordlessly, but Paris thought, A happy ending. This was the time for their happy ending. They were both safe. In the brightness of the ambulance headlights and the paparazzi cameras, they could kiss.
But Paris stood her ground.
She needed to tell Rory about Tasha, at least. She needed to know. This was important for both of them, but—
But Rory's back was turned again.
Paris closed the distance between them.
"This isn't over," she said angrily. "We're not over."
Rory didn't say anything. Didn't even look back. As though Paris wasn't even worth that much.
"I have to tell you about something," Paris said.
"Now is not the time," Rory said harshly.
"There's something you should know about—"
"Not now, Paris."
"Tasha is—"
Rory turned so quickly Paris took a step back. Her eyes glittered black and dangerous as she said, "Not now."
Then when?
Paris knew Rory lashed out when she was mad, when she was emotional. But this was more important than that. Rory needed to know that Tasha was the daughter of both Declan and London. She had to know.
But before Paris could say anything, Rory had walked away.
A paramedic was stitching Simon's wounds, and Simon said in a low, defeated voice, "Just go home for tonight, Paris."
Blankly, Paris could only stare into the distance.
You promised to fight for me.
✺✺✺
RORY WAS GONE THE NEXT MORNING.
Alec leaned against the doorframe of her office.
"The funeral is on January 3rd," he said. "Are you . . . you're not alright."
"I'm fine."
"I know they're gone, but . . . I think you should go after her."
Paris shook her head abruptly. "Go after her? She doesn't want me, Alec. I said, I love you, and she didn't even care! I tried to talk to her again and she . . . she pushed me away."
"How many times have you pushed her away?" Alec snapped. "These past six weeks, you shut yourself off so many times. But she never stopped fighting for you."
"It's different," Paris said. "This time, it's over."
"It's not over. You have to try."
"I tried," Paris said suddenly. "But maybe we were only ever meant to be first loves. Maybe that's it, you know? Maybe these past six weeks were closure. I can finally move on. She can move on. And if we see each other in twenty, thirty years . . . we'll be okay. I'll say hello, she'll say hi . . . and that's it. That's our love story."
"You're giving up."
"I'm not giving up!" Paris said. "This is life. That's how life fucking works, okay? Sometimes we don't get the happy endings we want, and that's it. You accept it. You move on."
"No," Alec said, shaking his head. "I'm not buying it."
"I'm happy you and Simon worked out. I really am. But Rory and I weren't meant to be, okay? We were fucked from the start."
"You don't really believe that, Paris."
Paris slammed her pen onto her desk. "And how do you know that?"
"Because you love her," Alec said. "And if you love her, she's worth fighting for."
✺✺✺
PARIS WATCHED RORY FALL IN LOVE.
With each page she turned, the pencil lines so artfully etched into the paper, Rory's life unfolded into drawings. Into masterpieces.
A boy with freckled skin and bright eyes, laughing.
An old woman with weathered lines and a crinkled smile.
Men with quiet smiles and children with vivid expressions. Women with soft, sketched lines and girls with soft blushes.
Strangers, people Rory had never met. People she saw every day.
At the beginning of the book, the drawings were made with rough strokes and blurry lines. But as Paris turned each page, she saw the progress. The skill that Rory honed.
And Paris saw herself.
She was sixteen in the first drawing, and she saw the side of her face. Wild, curly ringlets, captured in grey pencil. The arch of her smooth nose. The twinkle in her eyes. Sixteen, and a good girl.
Rory had noticed her, even before the first time they had talked.
And then, with every sketch that came after, Paris saw herself become more defined. More than ephemeral, more than a fleeting vision. She saw herself become a person in Rory's eyes, and she saw her fall in love.
There were smudges over Paris's jaw. The corner of her eyes.
As though . . . as though Rory had traced her fingertip over the sketch, again and again. Blurring the line between art and reality.
Paris saw herself turn seventeen and full of life. She saw herself the way Rory did, and she was beautiful.
The sketchbook featured every single person Rory had ever drawn, and it featured Paris most of all.
Like no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't forget the shape of Paris's face. As though every instinct pushed Rory into drawing the lines that made her a masterpiece.
Paris hadn't known.
She hadn't known that she been loved this hard. This deeply. She had dismissed their relationship, but now she looked.
Eighteen years old, and there was a wicked glint in her eyes.
The same one Paris saw when she looked at Rory.
Something captivating and intoxicating. Something that begged to be explored.
When Paris turned the page, her stupid, stupid heart skipped another beat.
It was her in the church.
It was the day they had ended everything.
Your brother is a rapist, Paris had said, full of fury, full of wrath. Rory had captured every detail, and . . . she hadn't made Paris into a monster. In this scene, Paris thought she had never been more beautiful. The golden light from the church mosaics had slanted over her eyes, illuminating the hazel, and although there was anger on her face, there was regret in the drawing. Regret—on Rory's behalf.
Regret flowing into the soft lines. Shame deepening the pencil strokes. Guilt caressing the ink around Paris's face.
All these years.
All these years.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," Paris said, without looking up.
"Doctor Young?"
Paris's heart squeezed. "You know, you can call me Paris, Tasha."
Tasha smiled faintly. "Okay, Paris. I . . . I have a question."
And Paris wondered how she hadn't known before. Because there, buried in the angle of her jaw and the light in her eyes, was a striking resemblance to London. To herself. And to Rory, her chestnut hair, her tan skin.
"Anything, Tasha."
"Why aren't you going after Princess Rory? It's been almost a week since she left. What are you waiting for?"
Paris sighed, and motioned for Tasha to come closer.
"Sometimes, when you're an adult, things . . . they don't go as planned." She smiled sadly. "It's okay. We get to keep the memories. Even if things didn't work out, I'm sure . . . I'm sure Rory will still come back and visit you."
"Will she be back for Dhonielle's funeral?"
"I . . . I don't know." It occurred to Paris, then, that Rory had left—and she had no idea about Dhonielle's funeral.
"You should make up with her," Tasha said fiercely.
"Tasha, it's just . . . it's not a good idea."
"But you love her!" Tasha said. "You love her, and . . ."
"What is it?"
"And maybe it's selfish to say this, but my mom once told me that girls who like girls always end up hating each other. They just don't fit together. And I thought, when you two were together, that you had proved her wrong. I know you don't have to . . . I know it's stupid . . . but you gave me hope. That I wasn't as—as dirty, as disgusting, as my mom said I was."
When Tasha cast her eyes up, they were brimming with tears.
Paris pulled Tasha into her arms, and they were both crying.
"Tasha, I know how badly you need us to work out," Paris said softly, stroking her back. "Rory and I didn't work out, but it's not because we were girls. It's because . . . because . . ."
"Because of some stupid deal?"
"Yeah," Paris said, blinking quickly. "It's just over now. She can't forgive me, and I respect that."
"Paris?"
"Yeah?"
"You're being an idiot."
Paris blinked, surprised.
Tasha pulled back and continued, "It's been less than a week since Princess Rory found out about the deal. You barely gave her any time to even process it! You're already quitting. Just because you're hurt, it doesn't mean you have the right to give up! You're supposed to fight, Paris. That's how it works. You're both supposed to fight for what you love."
"Did Alec put you up to this?"
"No," Tasha said. "Anyone with two eyes can put it together that you're being stupid. You need to get your shit together and go get your girl!"
"Tasha, I . . . even if I wanted to, Simon said Rory has been traveling all over the world in the past week. I don't even know where she is."
"You leave that up to me," Tasha said with a glint.
"And even if I did find her, even if I knew where she was . . . she wouldn't even want to see me, let alone talk to me."
Tasha paused. And a grin formed on her mouth.
"What if . . . what if I could help?"
"Trust me," Paris said. "Rory is stubborn. She won't—"
"What if she had no choice but to listen?"
"There's no way—"
"What if I made a broadcast on international television?"
Paris jumped to her feet. "Tasha, you can't do that. I won't let you."
"Why not? I'm a ward of the government. I can do whatever I—"
"Tasha, don't you dare. It won't make things better."
Tasha shrugged, still grinning. "Whatever you say, Doctor Young."
"Don't you dare," Paris said. "Tasha, don't you even think about it."
Tasha was already darting out of Paris's office.
Paris leaned back into her chair with a sigh, and then Tasha's head popped back in. Startling her.
"Oh, and Paris? Don't forget to pack your bags. You're going to the Himalayas."
✺✺✺
Buckle up.
I know I've already asked, but now that we're close to done, I'm curious again. Who's your favourite character?
From the moon and back,
Sarai