Page 123 of Darcy
Two.
One.
The blast lifts me, propelling me forwards. My head smacks into something hard, and the world goes white.
Forty-One
Slate
I’m not sure any of us have spoken in the last three days.
We ended up at Prophet’s house, crowded into the spare room. Mama P keeps prodding us to eat, but even Prophet, who’s usually anal about mealtimes and sleep schedules, doesn’t manage to keep much down.
The police took our statements, but we told them nothing beyond that we’d been informed there was a bomb threat and evacuated the audience. Then we had to tell the feds the same thing. They already knew that Miguel was working with the cartel, but we faked ignorance, and they took us at our word.
Now the press is reporting that it was an attack by a rival cartel. Our reputation has been saved, ironically, by our fierce record of philanthropic donations to youth drug rehabilitation centres.
None of our crew, or our fans, died in the blast. There were a few injuries, and Emma has a few minor burns, but that’s it. Miguel, his brothers, and his men were the only documented casualties.
Because Darcy D’Angelo has been wiped from the face of the earth.
Darcy saved us all, took out the cartel, then ceased to exist. There’s no record of her body. Her contract of employment is gone. Even her stuff disappeared from our hotel room, leaving no proof she was ever there.
We’re free men, but it doesn’t feel like freedom without her here. It feels like hell. Her last message taunts me every time I open my phone.
“Ethan, baby?” Mama P calls from the hall. “There’s someone here for you.”
I do love Prophet’s mom, but she’s had just about every friend and neighbour over in the last three days to try to cheer us up. Fuck, she had her pastor here praying over us yesterday.
Prophet doesn’t even bother moving his gaze from the TV, even though I’m pretty sure he’s not paying attention. “I’m not in the mood.”
When the door opens anyway, I’m the only one who even bothers looking up.
I don’t recognise the man who enters the living room, but I recognise the way he moves. Like a soldier. All martial confidence and smooth grooming.
Prophet’s dad has marine buddies who walk the same way.
“You’re Man,” I realise, my voice cracking. “She told us about you.”
I’m a coward. Can’t even say her name.
The others finally look up, drawn out of their fog by the mention of her.
Man doesn’t speak, just extends a hand and cocks two fingers in our direction before turning on his heel and walking out of the door.
Arlo is off his feet in a second, striding straight after him without hesitation.
I share a look with Prophet and Dodger, hardly daring to let myself believe this is real. Prophet’s jaw works, and he swallows before standing.
“We have to know,” he mumbles. “Even if it’s just a… a body.”
His voice breaks on the last word, and he hurries out after Arlo, wiping his hand down his face as he goes.
“He’s right.” Dodger stands and offers me a hand, which I take with a deep, fortifying breath.
It turns out Darcy’s adopted father brought a Bentley. We pile in, letting the stony-faced driver shut the door after us before getting in and starting the engine. None of us talk, and Man doesn’t either. Soon the silence is deafening.
I’m full to the brim with the unasked questions.
