“What’s wrong with me? Why can’t anyone love me?”
“I love you,” I say, trying as best as I can to comfort my best friend. I envelop her in my arms, shielding her from the world around us. “I’m so sorry. But I promise you, I’ll always be here for you. You and me until the end.”
Paige continues to cry, releasing the anguish from a lifetime of pain.
* * *
It takes me fifteen minutes to stop crying. It takes Paige another fifteen after that. Even then, her misery doesn’t subside—I think she has simply run out of tears.
We’re in no rush, so we continue to sit on the steps of a stranger’s house, tucked away from the sidewalk in an alcove formed by tall hedges. Her head remains on my shoulder, my arms wrapped around her tightly. My mascara streams down onto her hair, and hers drips down onto my jacket.
Footsteps click on the side, slowly getting louder. We don’t bother to hide and compose ourselves. Fuck people.
A silhouette appears before us on the sidewalk. In one hand, he holds two small bottles of water, and in the other is a lowball glass filled with an amber liquid. He takes a step forward and extends the water bottles to us.
For a moment, we stay still. We’ve been wrapped together like this for so long that we’re slow to move. Then simultaneously, we both reach out for the water.
“Thanks, Judge,” I say.
Judge Whitaker steps forward. His kind, handsome face emerges into the light before us. “I’m sorry.”
Paige and I open the water and drink. The water is clean and crisp and soothes our dry throats.
I point at the judge’s glass. “Bourbon?”
“Scotch.”
I beckon for the glass. “Close enough.”
He hands me the glass, and I offer it to Paige first. She takes a sip then hands it back to me. The liquid is rich and smoky when it meets my lips.
“I wanted to make sure you two were okay,” he says, looking up and down the street. “I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You’re friends with them?” Paige asks.
Again, he looks up the street. “I should go.”
“The secret’s out, Judge,” I say, handing Paige the glass of scotch. “Whatever you don’t tell us tonight, we’ll figure out tomorrow.”
He nods reluctantly. “I’ve known him for thirty-plus years. I’ve known her for twenty.”
“Twenty-one,” I add.
“That sounds about right,” he admits. “They’re not good people. You have to believe me.”
“Who is he?” I ask, curious about the husband.
“Thomas Thorne,” he says with slight disdain. “He’s a partner in a law firm in Century City. Real piece of work.”
“The kids?” I ask.
Whitaker grimaces. “Older one is Taylor Thorne, his daughter from a previous marriage. Works for him.”
A previous marriage. That confirms that Taylor was in the picture when Thomas and Priscilla met. Thomas kept his daughter, while Priscilla abandoned hers. This also makes Paige’s mom wife number two—at least.
“And Emma?” asks Paige.
Paige knows the answer. I think she asks so she can hear the words out loud, as an act of masochism. He’s not going to tell her anything she doesn’t already know.
The judge hesitates then says, “Emma is your half sister.”
Paige digests this. She takes another sip of the scotch then looks up at him. “Why?” she asks with pleading eyes as if hoping for an answer that will make this acceptable, if not forgivable.
Whitaker crouches down before her. “They are not good people, Paige. None of them. Not him, not the girls, not your mother. She abandoned you for her own selfish desires. I meant what I said before—you’re better off without her in your life.”
Paige doesn’t protest but doesn’t agree with the judge either. I take the scotch back and knock back the last sip. “If they’re so terrible,” I ask, handing the empty glass to Whitaker, “what were you doing at the party?”
Whitaker shrugs. “Even judges have to practice politics with the devil.”
“That’s a poor choice of words,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Paige.” He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to her. “If you ever need anything, please call me.”
Paige looks over his card as he walks away. “Judge Whitaker,” she calls. He stops and looks at her. “Can you answer one last question for me?”
He cocks his head, waiting.
“I don’t even know if you remember, but I was wondering, what’s my name? My real name?”
He nods. “Paige. Alexandra. Chandler.”
Paige inhales deeply, her breath stuttering as she receives that one last piece of the puzzle. With that, Judge William Whitaker hikes up the sidewalk, back to the house of Thomas Thorne and family.
Chapter 37
____◊____
THE DRIVE IS QUIET. There’s not much left to say after this evening, which is fine. I’m still trying to process it all myself. I try to imagine the series of events that transpired twenty-one years ago that led Priscilla to abandon her four-year-old daughter and begin a new life as Mrs. Thomas Thorne.
Who was she before? Who was Priscilla…? I can’t imagine what was so objectionable about bringing Paige into the family, if Thorne already had a daughter.
As I’m pondering this on the quiet drive back, Paige suddenly screams. It’s a primordial release of anger, frustration, and pain. It startles me, and I nearly lose control of the car and come close to hitting someone’s mailbox.
“I’m sorry,” Paige says. “I just needed to let that out.”
“That’s ok—”
“But I’m okay. Really. You know why? Because I did it. I finally found her, and now I can move with my life.”
I keep driving, not sure where Paige is going with this.
“So what if she’s not some homeless vagrant? So what if she’s not a doped-up prostitute living in the projects? So what if she’s not running from the mob or hiding from feds or if she didn’t accidentally kill
