Page 112 of We Are the Match
“This isn’tnew,” Paris says, her voice harder now. She stands, too, though I cannot see her face behind my mother. “You know what I am. You know what I have wanted. But I—things changed, Helen. Things changed because ofyou.”
“She came to me today,” Mama interrupts. “To make me a bargain, and to bring me your access code—that bracelet—so she could have you for herself and let your father and I destroy each other.”
And I gave it to her. I can hardly breathe.
Paris’s intake of breath is sharp as she looks down at her wrist. “No,” she says, but her voice is too shaky to be believed. “That isn’t why I came this morning—it isn’t, Helen.” The look in her eyes is soft with regret.
So much I am drowning in it.
“Then go,” I say numbly. “I knew you wanted your revenge. I did. But I did not plan to be your fool, Paris of Troy. So go and kill him, then, and spare me any more lies.”
“Helen,” Paris says at last. “Helen, I’ll leave. If that’s what you want. But will you give me five minutes? Not to explain. Not to change your mind. But to show you.”
I look at Mama, who sighs, but nods her head.
“Five minutes,” I tell Paris coldly.
We step outside the office together.
Paris looks so very, very tired. “Helen,” she says gently. She turns my bracelet on her wrist, slow and deliberate.
She says my name the way she said it last night, when her hands were rough the way I wanted them to be, but there is an ocean of tenderness in her eyes.
“I do not want you to play with me,” I say sharply. “I am through being toyed with, Paris.” Paris nods. Regret and grief and violence in her face. She is everything I wanted. Everything I was never meant to have.
“Can I show you something?” she asks.
Not an order, not this time.
I follow her, and when she reaches out a hand, question in her eyes, I take it, my hand cold in hers.
She leads me up a flight of stairs, and she tells me their story. She shows me their pain.
“It does not matter if I am sorry or not,” Paris says. She is looking past me at a hundred ghosts. “It does not matter if I justify it to myself or if you think it was unjustifiable. It is done. It cannot be undone. And here we are. But at least—at least, maybe, you can understand why.”
A single tear tracks down her cheek.
If I were tender the way she is with me, I would reach out and wipe it away. But, instead, I pull my hand from hers, draw back.
“This room belonged to my friend Cass.” Paris opens the door.
Inside, now, a man is cleaning a rifle with a long scope, its components laid out beside him.
“She and Milena slept there,” Paris continues, shutting the door gently. “Cass threaded ribbons through Milena’s hair. That is how I recognized Milena’s body. The bright-red ribbons were charred, Helen.”
I do not make a sound.
This, this is history no one else has. Paris has carried it alone, has carried it for so long.
“Paris,” I attempt, but her name does not quite reach my lips.
“This one was Thea’s room, when she was here.” Paris’s voice is hollow as she pushes this door open. “Only Jasmine slept here, after Thea left. If anyone talked about taking Thea’s place, Jasmine would break noses. She was vicious, and she was beautiful, and she died like all the rest.”
“And this—” She chokes. “This wasmine. Three of us in this room, because we were the youngest ones.”
And only Paris left alive.
“This was ... this was where I was going to bring you,” she says. “I was going to take you to Troy, your father’s ships behind me, and drag you up these steps with my knife at your throat. I wanted your father to see that his wife had left him—that she had played him for a fool. I wanted to see his rage, and hers. And I wanted them both to see you die.”
