Page 39 of Darcy
Lots of it.
Probably animal, I rationalise, taking in the slashed curtains, soiled bedding, and broken furniture with dawning horror now that I’m sure my equipment is safe.
These are textbook intimidation tactics, but I haven’t been here long enough to warrant this kind of reaction. No one knows about my links to the band.
I wander into the bathroom, grimacing as I realise there’s more blood in here. In fact, someone has gone to the trouble of filling the bath with it. That’s not the only damage. The sink is shattered, and chunks of porcelain have flown everywhere, tiles are cracked, the towels have been ripped up and tied into a noose which hangs from the shower head.
And on the glass shower screen, a single word has been painted in blood.
“Behave?” I read aloud, confused.
None of this makes any sense, and that’s what makes it so terrifying.
“Darcy?!” Slate yells, and it takes me a second to realise that his voice is now in the room with me, and not echoing from the phone in my hand. “Where are you—?”
How did he find me?I whirl just in time to catch his entrance into my bathroom. I watch as his eyes find me, then slide past to read the word on the glass. His expression morphs from one of sheer panic to dark fury in the space of a second.
No confusion, I realise. He knows who did this, and maybe even why. The message means something to him, which means whoever trashed my room did it to get to the band, not me.
“Why would anyone do this?” I ask.
My innocence is fake, as is the wobble in my voice, but he doesn’t know that.
I’m shaken, but not as badly as a normal person would be. I booked this room in a fake name, deliberately hiding my identity, which means they used the hotel’s cameras to figure me out. That means bribing the hotel security, which takes money.
This was a warning from the Rosales Cartel.
Without answering, Slate snags my wrist and pulls me away from the screen and the message on the glass.
“This is my key card,” he says. “It will give you access to our suite. Get in the elevator and stay on the phone until the doors close. I’ll get security on this.”
Really? Is his stupid plan to get me to stay with them all he can think of right now? My anger—ready and easier to deal with than the flicker of anxiety in my belly—flares to life.
“This isn’t some stunt to make me move in—”
“This has nothing to do with that,” he snaps. “Jesus,cariño, if you think so little of me—” He groans and runs a hand over his face. “None of us wouldeverdo something to hurt you. I’m sending you up to the others because I want you safe while we figure this out.”
Awww, that’s kind of sweet.
“Go. Please.” It looks like it physically pains him to say the last word, and that’s the only reason I do as he says.
I snag my case and laptop before I leave, because there’s no way I’m giving security the chance to go through my stuff, and tuck my phone between my shoulder and my ear.
“Still on the line?” Slate checks, as I step into the corridor.
“Yes. Slate… is this normal?”
His breath hisses out, fuzzing down the phone. “Get in the elevator. I’ll explain everything when I get up there.”
That’s not a denial.
The doors ping open, and I step in, pressing Slate’s card to the reader. “I’m in.”
“Good. I’ll text Arlo to make sure that Prophet doesn’t get to you first.” He pauses. “Lo siento, rubia. You didn’t deserve this.”
He hangs up, leaving me alone in the mirrored box with only my suitcase. My glasses are askew, and I busy myself with cleaning them.
Slate didn’t look surprised by what he found in my room, which means that this has happened before. That meansthisis the blackmail Miguel holds over them.
