“Who was that on the phone earlier?” Bom asked.

“No one,” Dara said without opening her eyes. Her stomach had finally settled, just in time for a short ambulance ride from the airport to the Hospital. Now, at a little before 10 in the morning, they were waiting for an emergency room physician to check her over. “Just a case of mistaken identity.”

“That was a pretty long conversation for a wrong number.” Bom sounded suspicious.

“It was nothing. Believe me. How long do you think this is going to take?”

“We’ve only been here 15 minutes.”

“This day feels like it’s already been a yearlong. It would be simpler for me just to see a doctor sometime this week. This is a waste of everyone’s time.”

“Let’s not take any chances. Maybe this is just a migraine, but you’ve never had them before. We don’t want to overlook anything serious.”

“All right. Fine.” Dara resigned herself to a few more hours of misery. Bom was trying to sound casual, but she was wearing the speckles off the dingy gray tiles with her constant pacing. Dara had never seen her display anything other than cool control and, occasionally, razor-sharp anger directed at some hapless individual who had dropped whatever ball Bom wanted carried. She must really be worried, and that realization stirred a wave of tenderness that had Dara grabbing Bom’s hand as she passed. “Hey, I’m okay. Sit down. Stop fretting.”

“I’m not—” Bom grinned when Dara raised an eyebrow. With a sigh, she leaned down to kiss Dara’s cheek. “I just can’t have anything happen to you, now can I?”

“Nothing will. Sit. We’ll be out of here soon.”

As it turned out, an hour passed before a pleasant emergency room physician assured Dara she did indeed have a severe migraine, brought on most likely by stress and malnutrition.

“Malnutrition?” Dara almost laughed. “That’s absurd.”

The physician smiled softly. “I’m afraid you’re quite anemic and your serum protein level is below normal limits too. Both results indicate serious iron deficiency, an inadequate diet, and in all likelihood, a depressed immune system. The migraine might very well be the first symptom of a more serious problem.”

“What do we need to do?” Bom’s voice quavered and she looked as if she might faint next.

“I’m prescribing the usual vitamins and iron supplements, regular exercise, plenty of rest, a balanced diet, and”—the doctor looked pointedly at Dara—“a reduced work schedule for a few months.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Dara exclaimed. “My work is not taxing. I’m a writer. I spend most of my days at a desk.”

“Do you think that exerting mental energy hour after hour is not draining? That the pressure of finding and tapping your creative resources does not produce stress and anxiety?” the physician asked gently.

Dara felt trapped. By the doctor’s logic, by her rebelling body, by the dread in Bom’s eyes. She wanted out of the small sterile cubicle. She wanted to escape from the too-critical gaze of the physician and the anxious attention of her oldest friend. She didn’t want to be helpless. She was not this woman losing control of her own life—she was Durami Sam. Capable, confident, successful. Always one step ahead, always on top.

Dara sat up. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, Dr. Kwon. May I go now?”

“Of course. The nurses will give you an instruction sheet when you sign out. Please consider the things I’ve told you, and have a good day.”

As Dara slipped into her pants and buttoned her shirt, she sent Bom, whose worry was like a third person in the room, an exasperated glance. “Stop. I told you, I’m fine.”

“It didn’t sound that way to me,” Bom said. “We’re going to need to take a hard look at your schedule and make some adjustments.”

“We’re going to do no such thing. My schedule is fine. I’m fine.”

“You heard what the doctor said. Today was a warning,” Bom said. “If you want to stay on top of the game, then you’re going to need to change a few things. You do want to hold on to your best-selling rank, don’t you?”

“That’s blackmail and you know it.” Dara grabbed her briefcase. Out, she just needed to get out of the hospital. Away from Bom’s too-sharp gaze and well-meaning concern. She wasn’t about to change her routine, risk her career—risk her life, for a damn headache. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to play hardball,” Bom said with surprising gentleness, “but if that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes.”

“We’ll talk about this later.” Just as Dara jerked open the curtain enclosing the cubicle, her phone rang for the fourth time in the last hour. She’d ignored it each time previously. This time, she yanked it out of her briefcase and checked the readout. The same country code number came up again. She pressed the accept icon and said tersely, “This is Durami Sam.”

After a moment’s silence, the husky alto voice she remembered from earlier that morning said, “I’m trying to reach Sandara Park. This is Dr. Lee Chaerin.”

“Yes, Dr. Lee, I know. And my answer is still the same as it was—”

“Ms. Park?” Chaerin asked.

“Yes.”

“Our county sheriff—Sheriff Gong—has traced a number of records—birth, marriage, death certificates, that sort of thing—and they pretty clearly indicate that you are indeed Grace Park’s direct heir. You’re named in her will, Ms. Park.”

“I don’t really see how that’s possible, but I’ll have my attorney contact—who should he contact? You? The sheriff?”

“Sheriff Gong would probably be the best one to help straighten out the legalities,” Chaerin said. “I know this is sudden, but we’ll need some instructions on how to take care of Ms. Park’s remains. There’s one funeral home in town that I can recommend.”

“This is insane,” Dara muttered. How could she possibly make decisions about someone she didn’t even know? “You’re satisfied with their services?”

“Yes. Completely.”

“Fine. Then that place would be fine. What about in the will? Has she left any final instructions?”

“I don’t know. Usually the family has that information—”

“Well, that’s obviously n