Chapter Three

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The sound pierces through me, more shrill than my phone alarm has ever sounded before.

"Someone shut that off," I mumble, covering my ears with my hands. My eyelids feel stuck shut, as though someone has glued them to my eyeballs. And why is my head throbbing like this?

"She's conscious," someone says. I can't tell who it is, or who they're talking to.

Of course I'm conscious. I was asleep and now I'm awake, or I'm getting there. I suck in a breath and fight against the fog clouding my brain, willing myself into alertness.

The clanging continues in spite of my grumbled protests. I thrash one of my arms to the side, fumbling to find my phone to hit snooze. My hand meets leather upholstery. Feeling this unexpected texture instead of a soft duvet sends a jolt through me. I'm not in my bed. Is that even my alarm?

As painful as my headache is, I listen more carefully to the commotion around me. The alarm sounds more like a fire horn in a building than something emitted by a phone or a clock. It reminds me of fire drills from the days I used to attend a regular school. The noise drones on, as does an incessant wail of sirens that must be coming from the street right outside of where I am.

Wherever that is.

It's an almost Herculean effort to force one of my eyes open. A fluorescent light shines above me, directly into my eyeball. I wince, then try to focus. I'm on a sofa in the green room of The Domino. Why am I here? I should be on stage.

I open my other eye and glance to the side, but I don't turn my head. Mom, Elton, Brynn, and a few uniformed police officers are huddled together in a corner. Light glares off the police badge affixed to the shirt of one officer when he turns to leave the room. Reality snaps back into place, slamming into me like a freight train.

The explosion. The blood. The bodies. Oh my God.

"Where's Sawyer?" I bolt upright on the sofa. Stabbing pain shoots through my temples and I pitch to the side. I grab hold of the sofa's arm and catch myself before toppling over.

Mom is at my side in an instant. "Easy, Deni," she cautions, steadying me.

I ignore her warning and scan the room for any sign of my best friend. He isn't here. "Sawyer!" I croak. My throat and mouth have gone dry. It's all I get out before I'm doubled over in a coughing fit.

Elton appears in front of us with a bottle of water. He removes the cap and hands the bottle to me. "Sawyer is fine," he says. "He ducked out after his set to get tacos down the street with his band and Carter. He wasn't here."

He's trying to stay calm, but there are underlying notes of anguish and panic in his voice. I swallow a few sips of water and attempt to take everything in. Alarms and sirens wail from all directions, and crackles and pops of static come from police radios out in the hall.

"What about everyone else who was in there?" I ask. "I saw people on the floor."

Elton exchanges a look with my mom. He doesn't answer me.

"I need to know," I plead.

"Some of them are injured," Mom finally replies. "Some of them have been taken to hospital, and others are still here with paramedics."

"Everyone's alive, though, right?" I phrase it as a question, but it's really a desperate prayer.

Mom and Elton are both silent. Neither one of them will meet my eyes. I push myself up from the sofa. Blood rushes to my head and I feel dizzy, but I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and make it to the door.

"Deni, don't go out there!" Mom calls out. Her words only prompt me to move faster. I have to know what happened, and if she and Elton aren't going to tell me, I'll find out for myself.

More police officers are in the hall. The officers and yellow crime scene tape stand between me and my path to the stage and main room of the venue, but I charge forward anyway.

"You can't go in there." An officer takes a step forward and puts an arm out, acting as a human barrier. "It's an active crime scene."

As if I didn't know that. I pivot and instead head for the door at the back of the building that my crew used for load-in before sound check. One of them might be outside, and they must know more. Sawyer could be out there, too.

Footsteps echo behind me. I recognize the clack of Mom's heels and the squeak of Elton's boot soles against the floor. Their calls for me are drowned out by the sound of my own pulse drumming in my ears. I hurry to the exit, where the door is propped open. There's an officer standing guard there, but he doesn't stop me when I approach. I brush past him and slip outside.

I'm in an alley now, but it's not the empty space it was before tonight's show. It's crowded with emergency vehicles, people, and stretchers. Some stretchers are carried into waiting ambulances, and others are wheeled toward the building I just came from. I gulp in the cool evening air and try to get my bearings.

Lights from idling police cruisers bounce between building walls and dance across my face in a kaleidoscope of blue and red. The sirens are louder out here than they were inside, and unending. There are already so many emergency vehicles out here, how could they possibly need more? None of this seems real.

Voices shouting my name start to register with me, but it isn't Mom or Elton calling out this time. I look down the alley, toward the sidewalk and the street, and spot news vans with satellites parked on the periphery of all this madness. The voices are reporters beckoning for my attention. As they come into focus, I realize they're recording everything—the police, paramedics, fire fighters, others who enter and exit the scene of the crime, and me.

My stomach dry heaves, and bile burns the back of my throat.

"Deni!" This voice is familiar, and it's one I've been waiting to hear. Sawyer rushes toward me, with Carter on his heels.

Sawyer's arms are around me in an instant. His eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and his cheeks are blotched with tear stains. I lock my arms around him, too, and bury my head in his shoulder. A tremor runs through my body, and it unleashes every emotion I have inside of me.

Flashbulbs pop and more reporters shout my name, but none of it matters. Sobs rack my body, and I cling to Sawyer as though he's my lifeline. I keep holding on to him even after Mom catches up to us and puts her arms around me, too.

* * *

The image of me sobbing on Sawyer's shoulder makes what seems like every television newscast and tabloid site out there. My agony in an endless loop, on display for all the world to see. It's splashed across every TV channel I watch and every website I aimlessly scroll that night, after I give up on trying to sleep.

I don't remember much about getting home or how I ended up in my bed. I vaguely recall Mom getting my doctor on the phone and asking if she should take me to the hospital to be checked out, then the phone being passed to me and my doctor asking me some questions. It would be a lie to say I have any recollection of what she asked or what I said.

I closed my eyes once after getting in bed, exhaustion nipping at my body and my brain, but I didn't sleep. Memories of the explosion and the faces of kids covered in blood and lying motionless on the floor became more vivid with each second my eyes remained shut. It's how I ended up with the TV on and my phone at my side.

It's also how I know at least twelve people who were at my concert died tonight, and that they were killed by a homemade bomb. Dozens more were injured, and others were admitted to hospital. Reports say it's a mix of victims in serious and critical condition, and some have life-threatening injuries. I know nothing yet about who did it, or if the police even know or have anyone in custody. The last press conference the police chief held was over two hours ago, around one-thirty in the morning. It's been the same information, the same stock footage from one of my concerts, and the same clip of Sawyer and me on repeat since then.

I should shut the TV off, but the rest of the night that looms in front of me seems terrifying and impossibly long to face in the dark, alone with nothing but my thoughts and the images of what I saw tonight. I need the numbing glow of the TV's blue light and the mindless hum of voices.

I think about texting or calling Sawyer, but I don't want to wake him up if he's managed to doze off. One of us should be able to sleep, at least. The only person I know who's normally still awake at this time is Bowie.

I haven't heard from Bowie since sound check.

He has to know what happened by now. Every local network, news site, and tabloid has been covering it since the story broke, and it's been all over the news alerts on my phone. You would have to be passed out under a rock in Los Angeles to not be aware, so why hasn't he checked in to see if I'm okay?

I reach for my phone to make sure I haven't missed a text or call. The last messages I have from him are still the ones about not being able to make it to my show and seeing me tomorrow, which I never replied to. I start typing a new message to him. Hey, are you there?

I press send and wait, but the text doesn't go through as delivered. That either means Bowie's phone is off, or he's somewhere he can't get reception or WiFi. I stare at the screen. My pulse quickens as I wait, willing the message to go through.

A jittery feeling courses through me. What if Bowie came to my show after all? What if he planned to surprise me and was there when the bomb exploded? What if he was hurt? I try, but I can't stop one more thought from forcing its way into my mind.

What if he's one of the twelve?

I search my memory, attempting to conjure up more details of the people I saw collapsed in front of the stage before I blacked out. Did any of them have his platinum hair or the ball cap he sometimes wears? Did I see his jacket or his black boots? All I can remember are the lifeless bodies, the smoke, and the blood.

He wasn't there, I tell myself. For once, him flaking out was the best thing. He's fine, and his phone battery probably died. I mentally repeat this over and over again, like a mantra. It doesn't do much to calm or convince me.

I still haven't slept when the first glimmers of daylight peek through my window shade. Bowie still hasn't texted or called me, either.


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