Page 58 of Iron Heart

- Dante

I glanceover at the corner of my porch, where his toolbox was. It’s gone.

I still haven’t turned my phone back on since I shut it off yesterday. When I get back inside, I almost press the power button, but in the end, I decide to give myself one more night. I’ll do it tomorrow morning, once I’m at work and can focus on something else instead of obsessing over any messages Dante did or did not send me. I take it upstairs with me and put it on the charger in my bedroom. Out of sight, out of mind.

The rest of my evening is spent on laundry. My is dinner a peanut butter and pickle sandwich and a Diet Coke. In spite of everything, it’s nice to be back in my own house, with no one to bother me and no one to talk to except myself. I find myself feeling almost lulled by the comforting sounds of Aunt Jeanne’s creaky floors and old water pipes. After all these years, they’re as familiar to me as anything is. I realize with a soft laugh that somehow, for better or worse, this place has become my home.

A loud, insistent knock on the door startles me from my thoughts. I know in an instant who it must be. Anger flashes inside me. And dread. I don’t want to see him.

I consider ignoring Dante’s knock at first. But my car’s in my driveway, and my lights are on. It doesn’t take a genius to see I’m home. And that man is stubborn enough that he’ll pound on that damn door all night long if he has a mind to.

I’m angry, nervous, and jittery as I put down the towel I’m folding and suck in a deep breath. Squaring my shoulders, I walk slowly to the front door and pull it open.

Dante is standing there, his large frame filling the doorway. The scruff of his beard is longer than usual. His hair is a tangle. He looks ragged, and tired. And angry too, I think.

Well, screw him. I’m angry, too. And I have more reason to be than he does.

“Dante,” I say, as calmly as I can. My heart starts to skitter in my chest. “I don’t think there’s anything to tal…”

But Dante’s not here to argue, or to seduce, or to cajole. At the look he gives me, my words die in my throat. Somehow, I know immediately that the world is about to tilt on its axis.

“It’s Cyndi,” he says simply. “She’s dead.”

23

Dante

Tori barely reacts at first to the news that Cyndi’s been killed. She stands, paralyzed, on the front porch, arms hanging limply at her sides. It’s almost like the words are too huge, too awful to penetrate. Like they bounced off of her, and are just lying there on the wooden planks between us, waiting.

But as I stand there, not knowing what to say or do, she starts to tremble, and I can tell that what I’ve just told her is starting to sink in.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Dante, it can’t be true.”

“It is.”

Her eyes lift to my face — searching, imploring me to tell her it’s all a lie, or a sick joke. I wish to hell I could.

“When?” she asks in a strangled voice.

“Saturday night.” I let out a breath. “About an hour before I texted you the first time.”

I’ve been trying to get hold of Tori ever since I found out. I didn’t want her to hear about this from a stranger, or at work. I know Cyndi and Tori weren’t best friends or anything, but that doesn’t make any difference. They knew each other, and Tori liked Cyndi a lot.

“No…” she whispers. “It’s just not possible.” She starts to shake harder. She’s starting to freak out. She might be going into mild shock. “What… what happened?”

I actually tried to rehearse this part. Tried to figure out a way to say it that would minimize the pain. But now that I’m standing in front of Tori, I can’t remember a goddamn thing. The fact is, there’s no way to sugarcoat someone’s death for someone who doesn’t want it to be true.

“She was on the back of Mal’s bike,” I begin, then pause, trying to weigh my words. “The two of them got ambushed by some of our enemies. They shot out Mal’s front tire. He lost control of the bike, and Cyndi…”

I stop, not wanting to go on. Looking at Tori’s horrified, crumpled face, I can’t stand to tell her the details. I can’t tell her how Cyndi wasn’t wearing a helmet. How she smashed into the pavement, her body thrown like a rag doll. How she was probably dead seconds after she hit. I can’t stand to try to put a positive spin on that — how she probably didn’t feel much. How maybe that was a mercy. It sounds fucking ridiculous, even to me.

“Well, Cyndi didn’t make it,” I say finally, lamely. “She didn’t suffer, though, Tori. I promise you that.”

“No,” Tori mutters in a half-possessed voice. She says the word like an incantation. “No, no, no…” Like she could conjure an alternate reality by saying it fervently enough. She starts to shake her head in rhythm with the word, her voice slowly rising. Then all at once, her voice cuts off in a half-wail, and she buries her head in her hands.

“I’m so sorry, babe.”

It’s all I can think of to say. My throat feels like it’s closing up, so I have to force the words out, and they come out sounding harsh and angry. I ache to comfort her, but I know I shouldn’t. I need to stay away from Tori. She could get hurt by being around me. Or killed. Shit, the universe pretty much gave me that goddamn message with Cyndi’s death. And Cyndi wasn’t even an old lady.

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