Chapter ten

Patricia called on a Thursday afternoon, and her voice had something in it that it hadn't had in weeks.

"I have a candidate," she said. "78 percent compatibility on preliminary screening. It's not a perfect match but it's the strongest we've seen, and I think it's worth pursuing."

I was on set when the call came in, between takes, still in costume, and I walked to the far end of the corridor so no one could see my face.

"Who is it?"

"A man in his early forties, registered donor, healthy, no contraindications. He's already been contacted and he's agreed to come in for the full compatibility panel."

"When?"

"Two weeks. He's traveling from overseas, it was the earliest we could arrange."

Two weeks. I pressed my back against the wall and looked at the ceiling and breathed.

"78 percent is good?" I asked, because I needed to hear it again.

"It's not ideal," Patricia said carefully, "but I've seen successful transplants at lower compatibility. The full panel will tell us more. Try not to get too far ahead of yourself."

Too late for that.

I went back to set and finished the scene in two takes, and Marcus said something complimentary that I didn't fully hear, and I drove home and told Jake I loved him approximately four more times than usual, which he accepted without comment because he was used to his mother being excessive about this particular thing.

I didn't tell Ryan. Not yet. I wanted to wait until the full panel came back, wanted to have something real to give him rather than a seventy-eight percent and a hope.

I didn't tell the twins either, obviously, though Jake had gotten very good at reading my moods in the way that sick children sometimes do, developing a sensitivity to the adults around them that breaks your heart a little when you notice it. He watched me over breakfast that Saturday with those serious dark eyes and said, "You look like good news, Mama," and I laughed and pulled him close and told him I just hadn't had enough coffee yet.

He didn't believe me, but he let it go, because he was four years old and kind.

The donor flew in on a Wednesday.

I wasn't at the clinic for the panel, because Dr. Hana had advised against it, said it could create pressure that might affect the process, and I had agreed even though every instinct I had wanted me in that waiting room. Instead I was on set, running lines I already knew by heart while my phone sat face up on the makeup table and I checked it every time Marcus called cut.

Patricia called at 4:17.

"I need you to come in," she said. "Not over the phone."

My stomach dropped. "Tell me now."

A pause. "Brynn—"

"Patricia. Tell me now."

She took a breath. "There was a mislabeling error in the preliminary screening. The compatibility rating we had wasn't for this donor. Someone in the registry database had their samples cross-referenced incorrectly, and when we ran the full panel today—" She stopped.

"He's not a match," I said.

"He's not a match. I'm so sorry. I know how much—"

"What's his actual compatibility?"

"Thirty-one percent. Far below the threshold."

I set the phone down on the makeup table and looked at myself in the mirror for a moment, at the costume and the lights and the face that five years ago I had built from nothing and named Sloane Vale.

Then I picked the phone back up.

"Start again," I said. "Every registry. Every contact. Start again tonight."

"Of course. And Brynn—I'm deeply sorry. This should not have happened. There will be a full review of the error—"

"Start again tonight," I said again, and ended the call.

Maya appeared in the doorway. "Marcus wants to know if you're ready for the next—"

"Give me five minutes," I said.

She nodded and disappeared.

I sat in the makeup chair and gave myself exactly five minutes, and then I stood up and went back to work, because that was what I did, and because falling apart on a Wednesday afternoon in a makeup chair on a film set was not something Sloane Vale did, and today, more than most days, I needed to be her.