Page 75 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur as I refuse to move from Sloane’s bedside. The world around me goes on: Pauline returns in the morning, Sloane’s team comes in and out to check on her, and so do the nurses and doctors.

They keep saying they don’t know if she’ll wake up. I say they don’t know Sloane. I’m not giving up on her.

Coach calls to see if I can make the game tomorrow.

Abuela Ximena and my sisters come by with another change of clothes and food for everyone.

Marco stops by with periodic updates. Turns out Vivian has lawyered up and isn’t saying anything, but they’ve got warrants for her hotel room, house, office, and car. I keep asking him why she did this, but he doesn’t know. He promises we’ll find out, though.

Pauline leaves again at midnight, and sometime around two I finally fall into an exhausted sleep, slumped over in a chair beside Sloane’s bed, her hand clutched in mine.

I jolt awake a few hours later when an exhausted-looking Marco shuffles into the room.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Can I talk to you out here for a minute?”

It takes a few seconds for his words to make it through the haze in my mind, but once they do, I spring out of the chair.

A quick glance at Sloane tells me nothing has changed, but that doesn’t stop me from whispering, “I’ll be right back,” and kissing her forehead before following Marco into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my eyes searching his weary ones for answers to a million questions at once.

“Looks like your hunch about the dolls was right,” he answers, shaking his head in disgust. “Apparently she’s behind it all.

The dolls, the messages, the truly disturbing letters.

The FBI and district attorney are going to have a field day fighting over the mounds of evidence we found in her hotel room and office back in New York. ”

“Her hotel room?” I ask, incredulous. “What the hell else did she have planned?”

At first, Marco looks reluctant, like he doesn’t want to tell me what he found.

But he must see how dead serious I am right now about knowing everything, because in the end he doesn’t sugarcoat his reply.

“She had another doll. It looked like Sloane, but the hair was chopped off and there were big black X s over its eyes. Its genitals were mutilated, and it was wearing a shirt that had the words ‘Swan Song’ stitched on it.”

“Fuck.” I shove a hand through my hair as I try to come to grips with everything he’s told me. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“There were more letters—addressed to you this time.”

“What—” I start but break off as Marco shakes his head.

“They were filthy, Sly. Really gross and really disturbed. I was talking to the DA, and they’re not even sure she’s well enough to stand trial.”

“If she’s really that bad, how could I have missed it? How could anyone—her family, her other clients?” Oh God, and her poor daughters. First Joe, now this… I wonder if there’s anything I should do for them?

“I don’t know. They’ve already interviewed several people who are close to her, and apparently they’re as blindsided as you are. Somehow she kept it under wraps.”

“Why, though? Why Sloane?”

“It looks like she thought she was protecting you from the Black Widow.” For the first time, his weary voice fills up with rage. “She didn’t want you to be her third victim.”

“Fuck,” I say again as all the old guilt starts to pile back in. But then I remember what Lucia said, what my grandmother said. And try to give myself some grace. It’s not easy, but I try. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“It’s about to get worse before it gets better.” Marco pauses for a second and gives me a serious look. “I know you haven’t wanted to talk about this, and I heard you were resistant to it earlier, but I really think you need to hire some kind of crisis PR person.”

“Marco—”

He holds up a hand to cut me off. “I know your image isn’t your focus right now, and I appreciate that more than you know.

But the Austin PD is going to do a press conference at ten this morning, and they’re going to lay out the details of the case—including who they’ve arrested.

Social media’s already all over this whole thing, and it’s only going to get worse when the finger is pointed at your agent. ”

“My agent deserves to have the finger pointed at her—” I start, but again he cuts me off.

“Absolutely. We just want to make sure it’s not also pointed at you.”

“I don’t care—”

“I know you don’t,” he interrupts. “But Sloane is going to wake up, and she’ll care.” I start to shake my head, but he presses on. “Just think about talking to Bryan?”

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him, more to shut him up than because I give a shit. Marquis told me the team’s PR people are already involved, and that’s enough for me. “If that’s all, I’m gonna go back in.”

“How is she?” he asks.

I start to tell him she’s hanging in there, since it’s what I’ve told everyone who has texted to check up on her. But then my eyes meet his, and I can see, like me, he needs the no-bullshit answer.

“There’s been no change. Nothing. The nurse came by around midnight and told me her vitals were strong, but when I pushed, she admitted the longer Sloane stays like this, the less likely it is that she’s going to wake up…or be the same when she does.”

Marco’s eyes fill with tears, and for a moment he looks gut-punched. Because I fucking live with that feeling right now, I give him a second to get his composure back.

“They don’t know Sloane,” he says after several beats. “They don’t know what she can do.”

“Yeah.” I nod. “I agree.”

“If you don’t need anything, I’m going to head back out. I want to grab a shower before the press conference.”

“Of course, man. Go.”

“Try to get a little more sleep, will you?” he says as he starts to turn around. But then he stops abruptly and holds up the bag I just now realize he’s carrying. “Hey, can you take this for when Sloane wakes up?”

“What is it?”

He grins, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from him, or anybody, in more than forty-eight hours.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a giant black widow spider.

It’s larger than Sloane’s head, and written in metallic Sharpie all over its body and giant, squishy legs are dozens, maybe hundreds, of get-well messages.

And right in the center of the red hourglass on its body is the hashtag #BlackWidowStrong .

I reach for it like it’s a lifeline. “Where did you get this?” I ask, my voice breaking on the last word.

“From her fans. You should look out the window sometime. There’re close to a thousand of them down there—they’ve been cycling through for hours, bringing gifts, flowers, cards.

” He nods to the plushie. “Spiders. And all of them have a story, some way that she’s touched their lives or even saved them.

I’ve never seen anything like it. I just wish Sloane could—”

His voice cracks, and he shakes his head and looks away.

I reach out to lay a comforting hand on Marco’s shoulder. The silence, like the fear, settles heavy between us. And then I hear it.

“What is that?” I demand.

“It sounds like a guitar,” he answers, eyes going wide.

My breath slams out of my lungs as I whirl around and see—through the privacy curtain half pulled over the glass door to Sloane’s room—her sitting up in bed.

Guitar in her lap.

Fingers on the strings.

Playing like she never stopped.