Holy shit.
“How can he…”
“Nell.” Patrick’s eyes darken. “He’s one of my closest friends. He’s been a mentor to me for over a decade, and I love him like a brother. But Darius Hawke has more demons than anyone I know.”
“And he thinks plunging back into a war zone will make them go away?”
“It’s impossible to know what he thinks. It always has been.” Patrick flexes his hand. “But he wouldn’t leave without telling you and your father. There’s no way. He just had to wait until the contract was settled.”
“Where is he now?” I tighten my grip on his shirt. “Did he go back to Volkov Bay?”
“No. He said he’d already closed up the beach house again.”
“When is he supposed to leave?”
“Uh, his flight is scheduled for…” Patrick looks at his watch, as if it will give him the answer. “Tonight.”
Releasing him, I slam my locker shut and hurry to the parking lot.
“Nell!”
Ignoring him, I start walking home until I’m able to catch a bus that drops me off near Dearborne Street. I run the rest of the way up the dirt road to the house.
Two cars are parked in the driveway. One is my father’s. I don’t recognize the other one.
I go into the house, dropping my book bag in the foyer before racing upstairs to Darius’s room. I stop inside. My breath is raspy.
My mind already knows what my heart doesn’t want to acknowledge. But all I have to do is look at the chair beside the dresser, and the truth breaks inside me like glass.
His camera bag is gone.
A cursory glance tells me his other belongings are gone too—the clothes he’d left in the closet, his notebook and papers, a few toiletries. Everything. The room looks like it did before he even arrived. As if he’d never been here at all.
I press a hand to my chest. My eyes burn. Patrick was wrong. Darius left without—
A deep voice rises up the stairs, mixing with my father’s familiar tone.
Swallowing hard, I scrub my arm across my face and hurry back downstairs. The door to my father’s office is half open. I stop in the hallway, concealing myself beside the doorframe.
“This is fantastic.” My father sounds as if he’s buoyed with pride. “It’s exactly what you wanted.”
“Just a lot sooner than expected.” Darius’s voice is measured and even. “I’m sorry I couldn’t renew the contract.”
“No, no. Everyone knows what your job entails. No one’s going to blame you. And word on the street is that Patrick O’Hare is a worthy successor.”
Pressure constricts my chest.
“Nell?” My father’s footsteps sound on the worn hardwood floor.
I shove away from the wall and try to compose my expression.
My father peers into the hallway, his eyebrows lifting. “I thought I heard you come in. What are you doing out here?”
He waves me into the room. Every nerve in my body goes on alert, strained with tension.
Darius is standing in front of the blackened fireplace, almost in the exact spot he’d been when he first arrived. It feels like a thousand years have passed since the day I thought I didn’t want him here. Now I can’t fathom my life without him.
His posture is rigid, his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. A forest-green shirt stretches over his chest and shoulders. He’s as solid as the earth, a mountain, a redwood.
“Did you hear the news?” my father asks me.
Darius’s eyes are black and impenetrable. His camera bag is on the floor at his feet. He goes out of focus, like I’m looking at him through a fogged window.
“Less than…an hour ago.” Through sheer force of will, I manage to keep my voice from wavering.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.” Darius sounds as if he’s speaking from far away. “It happened suddenly, but all the pieces fell into place.”
“All the pieces?” A surge of anger flames through me. That’s what I am? A piece that fell?
Regret ghosts over his face, so quick it’s almost not there at all. “I’d always intended to go back into the field. Wanted to. This is the first offer I’ve had in over a year. If I don’t take it, I might not have another chance.”
Bullshit, Darius Hawke. The journalism world has been holding its collective breath waiting for the return of their lost king.
I indicate the front of the house. “Where’s your SUV?”
“I sold it this morning. That’s a rental.”
“We can drive you to the airport,” my father says.
“Not necessary, but thank you. I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“What about the photography class?” I curl my fingers into my palms. “All the students have been counting on you, and you’re going to abandon them without warning? Without even saying goodbye?”
“Nell.” My father frowns.
Aside from a tightening of his jaw, Darius doesn’t move. “Patrick is more than qualified, and Hannah knows the entire curriculum. They’ll have winter break to coordinate. By the time the spring semester starts, no one will notice I’m gone.”
“No one?” My voice goes jagged, like barbed wire.
He settles his gaze on me. I can’t even begin to read whatever is shifting and pitching inside him, the turbulent sea locked behind his fortress.
“You’re going to miss the art competition.” Maybe if I just keep talking, he won’t be able to leave. None of this will be real. “Did you forget that you’re the one who convinced me to enter it?”
“Nell, this assignment is a great opportunity for Darius,” my father points out. “One of his goals in coming here was to rediscover his love of photography and journalism. The fact that he’s returning to work is a measure of his success.”
I narrow my eyes at Darius. “What about your book?”
“I’ve gotten a few chapters done. I’ll keep working on it.”
“Speaking of books, let me find that novel about the Trojan War I told you about.” My father crosses the room to examine the dozens of books lining the shelves.
When he turns his back to us, Darius’s face changes. A bleakness rises to his eyes, leaving them empty and devoid of him. Like whatever light had still been inside him is now extinguished. He lifts his hands toward me, palms open, a slight movement like a plea.
I grab the back of a chair. Every instinct urges me to run to him. I need to feel his arms closing around me, bringing me into his warm strength.
“Here we go.” My father extends a worn paperback. “It’s quite well-written, if inaccurate at times. You can read it on the plane.”
Darius nods his thanks and picks up his camera bag. He and my father walk to the door. All the breath rushes out of my lungs.
My father is still talking, saying something about the traffic to San Francisco International Airport. Forcing my legs to move, I follow them out the front door. The late-afternoon sun fractures through a layer of clouds.
Darius puts his camera in the trunk, which already contains his suitcase and travel bag. He extends his hand to my father.
“Thank you, Henry.” His throat works with a swallow. “For everything.”