“You could say that,” I agree. “But getting back to the kidnapping. You were saying that it was actually Dallas who helped you find a private team to hire?”
Darcy nods, then sits back as the waiter brings our curry. “We had a business meeting scheduled not long after my girls were taken.” His voice hitches as he speaks. “I remember I had canceled it, but Dallas showed up at my house anyway. Said he figured I needed an ear. He was right, of course.”
“And he just happened to suggest you hire vigilantes?”
Darcy laughs. “I don’t remember how it came up, but I do know that I couldn’t get the thought of hiring someone out of my head. I just—I didn’t have confidence in the authorities. And I told Dallas that, and he said he had a friend whose son was kidnapped and he’d hired a private team that successfully recovered the boy.”
“So he told you how to get in touch with this Deliverance group?”
“Oh, no. Dallas didn’t have a clue how to do that. But he put me in touch with his friend. Well, he set up a phone call. It was anonymous—his friend was nervous about his privacy. But we talked, and he gave me a contact number for reaching the group. I called and, well, even though it was clear he was using one of those voice alteration devices, I liked what the guy said. I hired them on the spot—it all happened fast. Had to if I wanted to get my girls back. Anonymous wire transfer to a numbered account. Could’ve ripped me off, but they didn’t. I got my girls back. And I don’t give a rat’s ass that the slimeball who took them got his throat slashed. I owe a lot to that group.”
His mouth curves into a frown. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t be pushing for your husband’s investigation,” he adds, referring to WORR’s efforts to track down Deliverance.
“Ex-husband,” I say automatically.
“Right. Sorry. At any rate, that’s my mother’s mission. Me, I’d just let Deliverance keep doing its thing.”
“How do you know that’s what they call themselves?”
He tilts his head as if he’s seriously considering the question. “The truth is, I don’t think they meant to let me hear that. I got a call from one of the men on the team, and he was pissed. I’d fucked up.”
“You? How?”
He shakes his head. “My girls—I knew from one of their friends who’d come back early from their Mexico trip that they’d bought some drugs from a guy they met at a club. But I—I didn’t say anything because …”
“Because you didn’t want to think of your girls that way,” I say after he trails off.
He nods. “Anyway, Deliverance—the team—they learned about it, and one of them called me. Told me I’d wasted valuable time. That I’d withheld important details, and that they’d learned that the guy who sold my daughters drugs was part of their kidnapper’s advance team. He said that I’d hired them to do a job, and that’s what they were doing. But that Deliverance could only do the job if I gave them all the information.”
His eyes are wet with tears. “He was right, of course. And even though he held it back, I could tell he was furious with me. I’d lost them time. Hell, I’d lost my girls time. And if they’d—”
A sob rips out of him, and I cover his hand with mine. “But they didn’t. They survived.”
“Yes. Yes.” He sucks in air. “Anyway, I didn’t realize what he’d said until after the fact, but then I made the connection. Deliverance. That’s what they called themselves. And that’s what they were. They delivered my girls back to me. They saved them. Hell, they saved me, because I would have shriveled up and died if my girls had been hurt.”
I nod, understanding. I would have shriveled up and died if something had happened to Dallas, too.
We talk for another hour or so, and even though my primary purpose for this meeting was to get the information for Dallas and Liam about the leaked name, by the time I get back home, change into comfy clothes, and start working, my head is filled with details for my book and I dive in with gusto, ignoring the screenplay that I really should be working on.
I’m so deep into work that I actually jump when my cellphone buzzes, signaling a call from my mother.
I grab up the phone, realizing as I do that I’ve completely lost track of time. It’s already five-thirty. I need to put on something other than sweatpants and get across the park in forty-five minutes.
“I can’t talk for long,” I say in lieu of a greeting. “I just realized I’m running late.”
I save my file and then jog upstairs, figuring I’ll change while I talk.
“That’s okay, sweetie. I just called to see if you wanted to have dinner tomorrow. I’m going stir crazy in the Hamptons. I thought I’d drive in early and do some shopping.”
“I’d love to,” I admit. “But I’m having dinner in Brooklyn with Dallas and Colin. He’s finally moved into that house he bought a year or so ago.”