Page 87 of Her Dark Angel

As each song cycles through, I find myself bopping my head along to the beat and pacing the floor, listening intently to the lyrics and instrumental. It’s a good way for me to learn all I can about the genre so that one day I can have my own music out in the world.

Once the entire record has played through, I smile to myself and flop down on my bed. The springs dig into my back, but I don’t care. Tiredness trickles into my body, and instead of fighting it, I close my eyes and dream about a life where I’m on the cover of a record, and my voice and lyrics are blasting through another kid's record player.

Feet pounding up the staircase jolts me awake. My room is pitch black aside from the moonlight streaming in through the open window, the beige curtains blowing in the slight breeze. My mind is fuzzy as I rub at my temples and sit up on the bed.

What the hell is going on? How long was I asleep?

My eyes snap to the bedroom door at the sound of shuffling feet. Frowning, I stand from the bed and gaze at the chipped door. Then, a sharp knock sounds across the quiet room.

“Nash Beck! Are you in there?” The voice is deep and authoritative.

What the hell…

“Y-yes,” I manage to call out after the words refused to leave my tongue. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jason Gideon with the LAPD. Can you come out and talk to us, please?”

My eyes widen. Why is a police officer in my house in the middle of the night?

Are my parents home?

Are they okay?

So many questions race through my mind at a mile a second, but I can’t just stand here with a policeman on the other side of the door.

As I walk across the small room to the door, my feet feel like they’re filled with lead, making each step more challenging. I’m afraid of what I might hear once I open the door. From what I’ve seen in movies and television shows, it’s not a good sign to have police barge into your house in the middle of the night.

It can only mean bad news.

I hope it has nothing to do with my parents or even my friends. The thought of something bad happening to them makes my stomach churn uncomfortably.

The door knob twists painfully slow, and the rusted hinges creak loudly as I pull the door open. Two policemen stand in front of me, looking down with hard eyes. One of them is tall with buzzed blonde hair, and the other is slightly older with slightly longer gray hair. Each of them have hard and focused eyes that pierce right through me. They’re both wearing black suits and the light shining in through the upstairs window allows me to see their gun holsters attached to their hip.

These men are the real deal.

“Nash?” the older man with gray hair says. “I’m officer Jason Gideon, and this is officer Spencer Walker. We have something we would like to talk to you about. Maybe it might be a good idea if we go downstairs first.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask as I follow them down the hallway and the staircase. The lights are on in the kitchen, but I don’t see either of my parents. “How did you get in my house?”

“The front door was unlocked,” Officer Walker replies as he steps off the last step and walks to the wooden dining table that can only seat four people. He pulls out a chair for me and I sit down gingerly, watching the men as they sit across from me. “When no one answered the door, we decided to come in and check for anyone home. It’s well after midnight, so we wanted to check to make sure everything was okay.”

“After midnight?” I ask with surprise. I don’t know when I shut my eyes after listening to the Poison record, but I must have been tired if I fell asleep fully clothed on top of the sheets and didn’t hear knocking at the front door. “Officers, is everything okay? Where are my parents?”

Jason Gideon exhales a long breath and clasps his hands together on the table. “Kid, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

He nods, licking his bottom lip slowly. “And where is your father at this hour?”

I shrug. “He’s usually at the bar down the street with his friends.”

Jason whispers something in Spencer’s ear before the younger man walks over to the landline in the kitchen. I want to ask him who he’s calling, but Jason pulls my attention back to him by clearing his throat.

“Nash,” he begins quietly, shifting in his seat, “this isn’t going to be easy to hear, but I am obligated to tell you since your father isn’t present. If he’s been drinking tonight then he isn’t the right person to explain the situation correctly to you.”

A lump forms in my throat, and I try to swallow it down but it’s firmly lodged in place. Just like the movies and television shows, a police officer needing to tell you something important with a quiet voice is never a good sign.

“W-what’s going on?” My voice is barely above a whisper and my entire body is wracked with nervous energy, my limbs vibrating as I attempt to prepare myself for what I’m about to hear.

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