Page 58 of The Matchmaker

“Stop talking!” he barks. “In the car. Now. I’m going to stopyoufrom hurting anyone else ever again.”

I need to hold him here a little longer. There’s no telling what will happen once we’re in that enclosed space together. He’s clearly capable of anything. Surely the police are on their way. They’ll be here any second. The porch light turns on. My mouth goes dry. If they come out again, he’ll kill them. Tears fall freely down my face. I open the car door.

“Attagirl. In we go.”

A car screeches in the distance. A red Jetta. Darcy’s Jetta. She bursts out of the driver’s side. Races toward us.

“Back away, asshole!” she screams.

“Darcy!” I cry out. “No!”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” The man’s face reddens. He turns from me. Moves toward her. “I am not in the mood for this shit.”

He lifts his gun. Aims his weapon at Darcy. There’s a cracking sound, like thunder.

Dots cloud my vision.

No.

Not Darcy.

No.

Before I can move, the man jerks backward. His eyes widen. Like a puppet without its strings, he slumps to the ground. Blood blooms across his shirt. He sputters, trying to speak, and then he’s silent. His mouth forming a perfect O.

Darcy. She’s lit up beneath the glow of the lamppost. The silver of her gun glints against the streetlight. She’s trembling head to toe, then collapses into herself, sinking to the ground as blue-and-white lights flash in the horizon.

Everything sweeps by in a blur from there. Lights flicker on in nearby homes. A voice on a loudspeaker from a police car orders Darcy to raise her hands in the air. Officers race out of their cars. In a matter of seconds, she’s cuffed.

“Wait!” I scream. “She saved my life!”

The cops surround the man’s lifeless body. Neighbors assemble in the distance, wearing bathrobes and watching with bafflement the police activity in this sleepy neighborhood.

They’re pulling her into the back of a cruiser. My breathing grows shallow. The police don’t know the whole story. They didn’t see what almost happened. That he was about to shoot her. That she’s the reason I’m still alive. I move toward the police car. There’s a squeeze on my shoulder. My khala. She wraps her arms around me.

I need to go to Darcy,I want to say. The words feel stuck in my throat. Nothing comes out. The police car pulls away. She’s gone.

“Let’s get you inside. You need to drink some water,” Khala says. “And you need to change your clothes.”

I look down at my outfit. Blood. There’s blood splattered across my blouse. My pants. His blood.

“Come inside, sweetheart,” she whispers. “The police need to speak with you.”

I don’t want to go inside. I want to be anywhere but here. But it’s as though I’m a child again. I let her guide me up the front stairs. The police are speaking to me in hushed voices. I try to follow along, but it’s hard to focus when what I want more than anything right now is to fade into oblivion.

But I have to talk to the officers. Clear Darcy’s name. We have to find the missing couple. Though he never answered my question. Did he spare Lena’s and Tanvir’s lives? Or, when he realized it was futile to try to win her back, did they meet the fate that I was about to meet myself?

Seventeen

Gertie lets out a mournful meow and leaps into my arms as soon as I unlatch her crate the next morning. We’re still within the confines of the fluorescent-lit police station, but as she nestles against me and purrs, my jaw unclenches and the world is suddenly just the smallest bit brighter. I’ve always seen Gertie as Khala’s pet, but pressing her close to me, I understand: She’s mine too.

The officer at the front desk hands me papers to sign and smiles at the two of us. “In case it helps you feel better, I heard she was looked after. Had a litter box, food bowl, and everything.”

That does make me feel somewhat better, but—“Darcy saved my life,” I tell him. “She doesn’t deserve to be behind bars. Who can I talk to about this?”

“She’s giving us her statement and going over the timeline. No charges have been filed against her.”

“Lena and Tanvir.” I’m almost afraid to ask. “Are they—”

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