“I just got back from the station.”
“Okay, honey. That’s good.”
“It isn’t.”
My eyes flew back and forth from Flo to Gwen. They were both staring me with identical looks of concern. “Why not? Did something happen?”
“They don’t believe me.”
My heart started pounding faster. “Believe you about what?”
“Donny.”
“Donny?” I echoed, trying to remain calm. “What about Donny?”
“I know it was him, even if the police don’t believe it.” She was still speaking in that eerily detached voice that sounded nothing like her own. “He’s got Rory. He’s got my boy. And I’m going to get him back.”
“Georgia, honey, listen to me,” I pleaded, rising to my feet and beginning to pace. “Donny was locked up when Rory went missing. There’s no way he could’ve taken him. Remember?”
“Then it was his brothers. Mickey or Shane or Nick. Any of them. All of them. They’re messing with me, because I’m messing with Donny. They want to hurt me.”
“The police already talked to them. You know that. You’re just tired and overwhelmed and not thinking clearly right now?—”
“I’m thinking clearly,” she snapped, a tiny bit of emotion cracking through her numb demeanor.
“Okay, Gigi. Okay.” I swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump from my throat. “When did you last sleep? When did you last eat?”
“That’s not important! What’s important right now is that I’m going to get Rory back. I just wanted to tell you so you knew — sosomeoneknew — before I go in there.”
This was sounding worse and worse. “Go inwhere? Where are you?”
There was no answer.
“Are you with your mom? Your sister?”
Again, no answer.
My eyes moved to Gwen. She was on her feet, standing close. Her face had gone pale. “Why don’t you come over here to Gwen’s house? Flo and I are here, we can talk through this?—”
“No.” The word was so soft, I had to strain to hear it. “I’m going in. I’m getting him back.”
“Georgia!” I was frantic, now. “Where the hell are you going?”
“The Banshee,” she whispered.
That’s when the line went dead.
Chapter Eighteen
I’m going for broke, here!
Wait. Scratch that. I’m already broke.
- Imogen Warner, checking her bank statement
We were too drunk to drive, so Gwen made a call to arrange a ride for us. I figured she’d hail a taxi or maybe ask one of Graham’s minions to ferry us to The Banshee before Georgia did something immensely stupid involving Donny’s batshit crazy brothers. I was so busy pulling on my boots and frantically redialing Gigi’s number, I didn’t pay all that much attention to who Gwen was dialing.
Our getaway vehicle pulled up to the curb. Not a cab, nor a black-on-black badass-mobile, but an ancient-looking minivan that had seen better days.