Girl of Vengeance by Charles Sheehan-Miles Page B

do, the thing that defined who she was. She reached out and took Alexandra’s hand and squeezed it gently, reassuringly. “Dylan’s going to be fine,” Carrie said.
    “Thanks,” Alexandra whispered. “I know. I know he will.”
    Carrie sat back in her seat and stared into space. Everything was upside down and confused. She thought of the phone call earlier, as she’d been trying to make some order out of the chaos of the condominium. It was the house phone that rang, and she’d rushed to it, not recognizing the 604 area code.
    “Hello?” she’d said.
    “Carrie, it’s your mother.”
    “Mom?” she had nearly screeched. “What’s happening? I saw the news—you’re in Canada? Is Jessica okay? What happened to her?”
    “Slow down, Carrie,” her mother had said, even as the other sisters crowded around Carrie. Then Mother began to speak, but Carrie missed the first few words, because something was different about her mother. She sounded—not strained, or panicked. She didn’t know what she sounded like.
    “… so for now we’re just outside of Vancouver, and I think we’ll be here for some time. Jessica’s in intensive care.”
    “What happened? Did she get shot? I heard there was some kind of shootout?”
    Her mother had sighed. “No. Your sister is very sick, Carrie. She—she got into using meth somehow. She’s addicted.”
    Carrie winced and almost doubled over, involuntarily clutching her stomach with one hand. Julia, alarmed, put her hand on Carrie’s shoulder. Carrie waved Julia off, then said, “Mother, how—when— I don’t understand.”
    “It happened this winter, when your father was locked up in his office.”
    Carrie had gone cold. “He’s not my father.”
    Silence for a moment. Carrie’s sisters, Julia, Alexandra, and Sarah, blanched. They all expected the same thing Carrie did—a hysterical rage response.
    Instead, her mother had simply said, “No, he’s not. Your father is Prince George-Phillip.”
    Carrie had put her hand to her mouth and sobbed. Then she had whispered, “Why did you lie to us?”
    Her mother gave the strangest answer, an answer that made no sense, an answer that she couldn’t understand. Her mother had answered, “To save your lives.”
    Now, hours later, she still didn’t understand. And she didn’t know if she ever would.
    Carrie unconsciously slid down into her seat a little when she saw the two news vans parked in front of the British Embassy, and the crowd of reporters and cameras arrayed along the sidewalk. She knew they couldn’t see into the SUV—the tinted windows were so dark you had to press your nose into the glass in order to make out anything. But all the same, the sight of cameras, of reporters—it took her right back.
    The driver swung the car into the driveway of the Embassy, making no concessions to the reporters who had to scramble out of the way.
    “Jesus Christ,” Alexandra muttered, unconsciously echoing Dylan.
    The clamor outside the car was crazy. The guard cracked the window, rolling it down just a few inches. He spoke with the Royal Marine who guarded the gate, then a moment later, the gate opened. The SUV and chase car entered the Embassy compound, pulling to a stop in front of a three-story red brick building. Half a dozen Royal Marines in uniform were at the front of the building. Two of them approached the car, one opening the door almost immediately as it came to a stop.
    “Doctor Sherman? Mrs. Paris? Come this way, please. Quickly, we’re still in sight of the reporters.”
    Alexandra got out on her side, and Carrie slid across and followed her out. Quickly, they followed the Marine up the steps. Almost one hundred feet behind them, at the fence, she could hear shouting. The reporters called her name.
    She hustled inside, entering a well-appointed, air-conditioned room. The anteroom had highly polished marble floors, the center covered with a beautiful Persian carpet. Across the room from her stood Prince