The Rolls-Royce Phantom idled smoothly at the curb outside Darla's Brooklyn apartment building.
Darla and Anson walked up the three flights of narrow, scuffed stairs. Darla unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The apartment was tiny. The living room and kitchen were crammed into one space, but it was spotless. Books were stacked neatly on shelves, and a small plant sat on the windowsill.
Anson stepped inside. His broad shoulders seemed to take up half the room. His dark eyes scanned the cramped space, but there was no pity or disgust in his gaze.
Darla felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. She walked to the tiny fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to him.
"I know it's not much," Darla said quietly.
Anson unscrewed the cap and took a drink. "It's perfect. It's better than where I used to sleep."
He checked his watch. "I have to take the car back and cover a night shift at the hotel. Will you be okay here alone?"
Darla nodded, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Anson."
Anson held her gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning and walking out the door. The lock clicked shut.
The silence of the apartment crashed down on Darla. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the cheap fabric sofa. Her muscles felt like lead. She closed her eyes, finally feeling safe.
Her phone buzzed violently on the coffee table.
It was an unknown number.
Darla frowned and hit accept. "Hello?"
"Is this Darla Hammond?" The voice was mechanical, completely devoid of emotion.
"Yes."
"This is Warden Miller from the State Penitentiary. I am calling to inform you that your father, David Hammond, was pronounced dead at 6:14 PM this evening."
The air vanished from the room. Darla's lungs stopped working.
"What?" Darla whispered, her vocal cords paralyzing.
"Preliminary reports indicate suicide by hanging," the warden continued coldly. "You will need to claim the body."
The phone slipped from Darla's numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass.
Darla's knees gave out. She slid off the sofa and hit the floor hard.
Her father. Her kind, gentle father. He had promised her he would wait for the appeal. He would never kill himself.
Agnes's threat from the morning echoed in her head. Let him rot in that prison.
They killed him. The Mosleys had him killed to break her.
A sound tore out of Darla's throat-a raw, guttural scream of pure agony. She curled into a ball on the floor, clutching her stomach as if she had been stabbed. The grief hit her like a physical weight, crushing her ribs, suffocating her.
Tears poured down her face, soaking into the rug. She was completely, utterly alone.
Down on the street, Anson was walking toward the Maybach when his phone rang.
"Boss," Isaac said, his voice tight. "We just intercepted a report from the prison. David Hammond is dead."
Anson stopped dead in his tracks. His blood turned to ice.
He didn't say a word. He spun around and sprinted back into the building. He took the stairs three at a time.
He jammed the brass key into the lock and shoved the door open.
He saw Darla on the floor, her body shaking violently with sobs.
Anson's chest seized. He crossed the room in two massive strides and dropped to his knees. He reached out and pulled her small, trembling body roughly into his chest.
Darla didn't fight him. She buried her face in his shirt, her fingers digging desperately into his shoulders as she sobbed out her broken heart.
Anson wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight enough to keep her from falling apart. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his eyes staring blankly at the wall, burning with a dark, terrifying promise of violence.
