Recitation was a great calming mechanism. My mother had taught me that back when she was sick, and it had helped me get through all the hospital visits, the long nights after she came back home and there was nothing to do but wait for her death. It got me through the funeral, the wake, and a thousand terrified nights since, wishing she was here with me.
“Rory! Where are my black jeans?” Darcy demanded, appearing in the doorway.
“What? How would I know where your black jeans are?” I quickly shoved my iPad into its case and turned my back to her, wiping my eyes with both hands. I glanced at the photo of me and my mom from my ninth birthday and snatched it off my dresser. I didn’t care what Messenger said. The picture was coming with me.
“Because I put them in my closet this morning and now they’re not there.”
I shot Darcy an incredulous look. She was always doing this—accusing me of taking things I would never take from her.
“Like your jeans would even fit me,” I shot back, shakily gathering up my charger and a few pairs of socks from my top drawer. “In case you haven’t noticed, you have no thighs.”
“Well, then where the hell are they?” she shouted.
“I have no idea! Is this really what you’re worried about right now?” I cried.
“They’re my favorite jeans!” she yelled back.
“Girls!”
Agent Messenger had appeared at the top of the stairs.
“What?” we both shouted at her.
Then my heart dropped. Yelling at an FBI agent was probably a bad thing.
“You have two minutes,” she told us. “Get it together.”
Then she turned and walked into my father’s room, where he was busy slamming drawers and ripping clothes off hangers.
“I don’t believe this,” Darcy sputtered, yanking on the drawstrings of her sweatshirt. “I’ve only been looking forward to Becky’s party all effing year! Everyone’s going. Everyone! But guess who’s not gonna be there in her favorite black jeans! Me!”
I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath. She was just venting. Just dealing. If I could scream at my iPad falling to the floor, she could ramble psychotically about some stupid party. That was all that mattered to her, after all. Her friends. Her parties. Her fun.
She stormed into the hallway and started down the stairs. Suddenly, there was a loud tumbling noise followed by a crash. Heart in my throat, I ran out of my room.
“Sonofa—”
Darcy was sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, her head back against the corner of the small dresser where we threw the mail and everything else we didn’t know what to do with. She sat forward and shakily reached for the back of her head.
“Are you okay?” I demanded.
“I’m fine.”
She drew her hand out. Her fingertips were coated in blood.
“I’ll get Dad,” I said.
“No! I said I’m fine,” Darcy shouted, shoving herself to her feet. “I’m going to check the laundry room.”
She took one staggering step, then righted herself and disappeared around the corner. I glanced over my shoulder, surprised my dad and Messenger hadn’t heard her fall. But then I realized they were making enough noise to drown out just about anything, him slamming around his room and her speaking loudly over the din.
Slowly, I tiptoed over and hovered near the open door, just out of sight.
“How long are we going to have to be away?” I heard my dad ask, banging a drawer closed.
“As long as it takes to find this guy and lock him up,” Messenger said. “For now, let’s talk logistics.”
“All right, fine,” my father said tersely. I heard a zip, then another slam. “So talk.”