Page 145 of Desperate People

Everything’s spinning.

I hit the ground, knees scraping concrete.

Then I’m hauled upright, stumbling into what smells like rot and mildew.

Somewhere damp. Abandoned.

Someplace no one would ever find me.

No, I refuse to go there.

The air is heavy with dust and something else—mold, decay, time.

Like this space hasn’t been lived in or used for years.

My head spins as I try to orient myself.

Peeling wallpaper.

Shattered windows.

Faint light filtering through warped slats.

Then I see him.

From the shadows, a man steps forward.

Stringy blond hair, red-rimmed eyes, a snarl curling his lips.

I blink hard, trying to place him.

I know him.

I know that face.

El Tigre’s manager.

“You recognize me, don’t you, Diablita?” he asks, glaring at me with crazed eyes.

“Um. Yeah, you’re um, Daniel. No—David?”

I try to think, but it’s hard.

His last name is something. Something with an M.

And then he says it.

“Daniel Matheson!” he shouts like I’ve insulted him by forgetting.

“You little fucking tease!” His voice cracks, hoarse with fury. “You should have been mine!”

I take a step back, heart hammering against my ribs.

He follows.

“Don’t you know I’m the reason he wrote those songs for you? I convinced El Tigre you were it! The muse! So fucking worthy!”

He paces, frantic, one hand running through his hair, the other twitching at his side.

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