I have to go back to the gym tomorrow to find out more about the blond, not to mention try to find Billy. I ask what Lyle found out about Ursula in order not to have to think about returning to the gym. Mirabelle did a search on Ursula because she loves doing research, and she knows a few people in the biz. Turn out, Ursula had exaggerated about her financial assets. She’s worth about ten million, not the twenty-five or whatever she told us. Also, she just returned from a weeklong five-state tour. It was a Midwest swing. Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa and one of the Dakotas. Lyle and I both shudder with the insularity of true Californians, not able to imagine why anyone would live in the Midwest. Lyle resumes his narrative, informing me that Ursula’s latest book has been postponed twice. Her publisher is furious with her, according to Mirabelle, and is threatening to sue her for breach of contract.
Her situation sounds grim, but far from dire. I clarify that she has money, that she’s not broke, which she isn’t. However, she won’t be able to spend money at the rate to which she’s rapidly become accustomed. Lyle lowers his voice to impart the gossip that Ursula has a lover somewhere, but that’s all that Mirabelle knew. I am taking notes as he talks because it helps me order my thoughts. Lyle is moody as he finishes reporting because we have all this information and none of it fits together. Ignoring his temper tantrum, I tell him that the blond girl is the key. I am beginning to realize that he doesn’t react well under pressure and that it’s nothing personal. A huge yawn nearly splits my mouth, making me realize that I sleep. It’s nine o’clock.
“I think I’ll hang here a few more hours, then go home for the night,” I say to Lyle. “I suggest you do the same.”
“Can I come over to your place?” Lyle asks, a puppy-dog look on his face. “I don’t want to be alone.” I can understand that, as I am feeling the same way. I nod, then we both go back to the waiting room. My mom is awake and chatting with the Jensons. Mr. Jenson is back to impersonating a martinet while Mrs. Jenson is dissolving into a ball of weepy nerves. Mr. Jenson is patting her stiffly on the back, obviously uncomfortable with attempting to console her.
“Why don’t you guys go home?” My mother says, shooting me a meaningful look. When I don’t budge, she adds in Taiwanese, “They’re ready to snap. You need to get Lyle out of here.”
“Let me just see Paris really quick first,” I say, slipping away. The officer looks up from the magazine he’s leafing through and nods. It’s a different officer this time, so I have to give my name again before he lets me inside. I take my accustomed chair and gaze at Paris for a minute. Open your damn eyes, I urge him silently, but there isn’t even a flicker. I vaguely remember something about the chances of recovering being reduced drastically if the victim does not open his eyes in the first forty-eight hours following his trauma. It’s been about that much time, which means we’re entering the danger zone.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I whisper, unsure if I’m speaking loud enough for him to hear. Even if I’m not, I have things I need to say. “Paris, you’ve been my best friend forever. I love you more than almost anyone on this earth. I can’t thank you enough for having my back.” I pause, not wanting to be melodramatic. I am stroking his hand which has no feeling to it. “I promise you, Paris. I’m going to get the bastard who did this to you. If it’s the last thing I do.” I sit, not saying anything else. My heart is speaking to his, and I’m sure he can hear that message better than any I might vocalize. I allow myself to feel the pain of his pain. I relinquish the death grip I’ve had on my control for the last few days. It’s only in his presence that I feel safe enough to be vulnerable, knowing he won’t take advantage of it.
Besides, I need to wait for Mr. Jenson, as he’s on my list of people to interview. I doubt very much I’ll get anything substantive from him as he’s a cagey man, but I owe it to Paris to try. I have a hard time believing that he drove or flew from San Diego to the Bay Area to kill Paris for reasons unknown, but odder things have been known to happen. I wonder about the Jensons financial situation, then wonder why I wonder. Even if they are strapped for cash, it’s not as if Paris has much in the bank. The money that Ursula claims she’s going to settle on him hasn’t happened yet, Mr. Jenson don’t know about it, anyway, and it’s not enough to kill your stepson over, is it? Thinking about money leads me to ponder whether Paris has a will or not. My guess is no, but he can be surprisingly pragmatic about things such as that. If he does have a will, I’m fairly share that much of his earthly possessions will be split between Lyle and me. I wonder if Inspector Robinson has looked into that. I’m sure she has. She’s a thorough inspector who always gets her man. Or woman.
I wander around the gym, engaging random people in conversation. No one working out, of course, because that would be in violation of club rules. Besides, I know how I’d feel if someone was pestering me as I was trying to do my reps. However, there are quite a few people just milling around, looking as if they’re either resting or done or about to start. Those are the ones I target. Understandably, most of them are reluctant to divulge anything to a total stranger, but the fact that I’m a petite woman who is not a potential threat disarms the women. The fact that I’m a good-looking petite Asian woman disarms most of the men—and more than a few women. Unfortunately, even when I’m able to pry information out of people, there is precious little to be had. Gym rats are creatures of habit, and most of this crowd never step foot in the gym until late afternoon. After an hour, I’m more than a little dispirited. I decide to try one more person before giving up. My quarry is a burly he-man hulk with bulging muscles and a tiny waist. I don’t understand why guys go for that look, but I’m sure many guys don’t understand why some women slather makeup on their faces with a trowel. The guy has bought some kind of wheat-germ drink from the juice bar and is chugging it down methodically. I wait for him to swallow before I speak.
I turn to the computer where there is an email from my sister. More blathering about her wedding and what I must and must not do. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so important, and I delete it. There’s also a nice email from Vashti just saying she’s thinking of me and to call her when I have a minute. That one I save. I frown at the next email because it has an unfamiliar address: 
“It’s your turn to go in, Rayne,” Mrs. Jenson says softly.
“He’s a changeling,” I say, not exactly sure what it means but liking the sound of it. “He’s a gift from the heavens. It doesn’t matter who raised him because he basically came as he is.”
I am incredulous with his reaction and demand to know why it doesn’t bother him. He thinks it’s funny, and he thinks she’s jealous of anyone I’m sleeping with. He’s still chuckling as he reveals that he thinks the good inspector has the hots for me. That causes me to sputter indignantly for a few minutes while Lyle looks on in amusement. The prim and proper inspector having a crush on me? The thought of that is so bizarre, I can’t take it seriously. I’m nothing more than an irritant to her, forced upon her because of unusual circumstances. I’m a suspect in an attempted murder case and have been in two past cases. I don’t even know she’s gay, for god’s sake. The idea is ludicrous, I inform Lyle. He brushes aside my objections, firm in his belief that Inspector Robinson wants to get into my pants.
“Ok, you two,” my mother says firmly. “You need to rest. Go home.” Lyle and I begin to protest through our tears. The last thing I want to do is leave Paris. “Go! You need real sleep—not an hour here and there. Take Lyle’s truck and crash at Rainbow’s. I’ll stay with Catherine. I have my car if I need it.” When my mother decides on a course of action, the best thing to do is to follow it.
Watching Mrs. Jenson, I feel another surge of anger. Not at the would-be murderer this time, but at her. She loves Paris, I have no doubt, but she can’t see past her narrow vision to embrace the beautiful, complicated man that he is. The whole time Paris and I’ve been friends, I’ve never heard Mrs. Jenson say anything positive about or to Paris. Instead, she stands to the side with her mouth pursed, looking at him with disapproval. Paris feels her disappointment keenly, but hasn’t gotten bitter over it as many would have. However, he does have issues with his dead father, which reminds me that I have to tell him the story his mother told me about shutting out Mr. Frantz after adopting Paris. It might help explain why Mr. Frantz was the way he was.