"Oh,” she said, then her eyes widened slightly as the name registered. "The daughter of Dia Jones?”
I nodded. People might not know me, but thanks to the fact that many of her clients were celebrities, they sure knew Mom. "Mrs. Kingston is a client. She asked for me specifically.”
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to check.”
I nodded again, watching as she rose and walked through the door that separated the reception area from the intensive care wards. Down that bright hall, a shrouded gray figure waited. Another reaper. Another soul about to pass.
I closed my eyes again and took a long, slow breath. I could do this.
I could.
The nurse came back with another woman. She was small and dark-haired, her sharp features and brown eyes drawn and tired looking.
"Risa,” she said, offering me her hand. "Fay Kingston. I'm so glad you were able to come.”
I shook her hand briefly. Her grief seemed to crawl from her flesh, and it made my heart ache. I pulled my hand gently from hers and flexed my fingers. The grief still clung to them, stinging lightly. "There's no guarantee I can help you. She might have already made her decision.”
The woman licked her lips and nodded, but the brightness in her eyes suggested she wasn't ready to believe it. Then again, what mother would?
"We just need to know—” She stopped, tears gathering in her eyes. She took a deep breath, then gave me a bright, false smile. "This way.”
I washed my hands, then followed her through the secure door and down the bright hall, the echo of our footsteps like a strong, steady heartbeat. The shrouded reaper didn't look our way—his concentration was on his soul. I glanced into the room as we passed him. It was a boy about eight years old. There were machines and doctors clustered all around him, working frantically. There's no hope, I wanted to say. Let him go in peace.
But I'd been wrong before. Maybe I'd be wrong again.
Three doorways down from the reaper, Mrs. Kingston swung left into a room and walked across to a dark-haired man sitting near the bed. I stopped in the doorway, barely even registering his presence as my gaze was drawn to the small form on the bed.
She was a dark-haired bundle of bones that seemed lost in the stark whiteness of the hospital room. Machines surrounded her, doing the work of her body, keeping her alive. Her face was drawn, gaunt, and there were dark circles under her closed eyes.