Aren’t there rumors about that singer who died?
Rick slowed and opened a thread, and then another. Names came up that he hadn’t heard in years, stories that had been buried and dragged back out because someone thought it was funny.
He didn’t need to read much to know where it went. People kept picking until something stuck, and if they couldn’t find facts, they filled in the gaps themselves. Rick tightened his jaw as he scrolled.
Allen didn’t understand that world. Allen thought you could ignore things, and they’d pass, thought quiet meant safe. Rick stared at the screen and made a decision. If people were willing to talk like that in public, they were willing to dig into anything connected to him, and Allen was close enough to get dragged into it.
Allen’s message from earlier that day sat in the thread. Rick opened it again, then responded,I’ll come later with takeout.
Rick locked his phone and slid it back into his pocket. He sat for another minute, letting the bar noise wash over him, then stood, picked up his jacket, and left without drawing attention.
Outside, the air felt cold and clean compared to the bar. Rick got into his car and drove, skipping home and heading across town toward the venue district. He found a quieter street where people moved in and out all night and no one remembered faces, parked where he could see the alley that fed into the main road, and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. The younger singer came out with two friends, laughing too loudly, walking like nothing could touch them. They headed toward the parking lot entrance, and near the corner the singer split away from them, phone in hand, eyes down as he typed while he walked.
Rick started the engine and pulled out slowly. He took the bend toward the crossing and watched the singer step off the curb without looking properly. Rick didn’t hesitate. The impact jolted the wheel, and the singer went down hard on the road.
Rick kept driving. In the mirror he saw one friend running into the street, someone else stumbling back with their hands to their head, but he didn’t slow. He took the next turn, then the next, choosing streets with fewer lights and less traffic until he was a few blocks away.
Pulling into a side street, Rick got out and checked the front of the car. There was a smear and a small crack near the edge of the bumper, nothing obvious unless someone knew to look for it. He wiped it with his sleeve, got back in, and drove.
By the time he reached Allen’s building, Rick already had the story lined up in his head. A careless driver. Someone drunk. Someone looking at their phone. Cameras everywhere, and no one watching until after.
It would be called an incident. It would be tragic. People would post about it and then move on. What mattered was that thesinger wouldn’t run his mouth again and wouldn’t use Rick’s past as some form of entertainment.
Rick parked and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel. He thought about Allen’s face when Rick left, pale and stiff, holding himself upright like he was trying not to fall apart. Rick didn’t like the space between them, and he didn’t like silence he couldn’t control.
He opened their thread and stared at the empty space for a second, then put the phone down and leaned back in the seat. The problem was handled. Now he could go back and deal with Allen.
Chapter Twenty-Four
By the time Allen met Mark and Connor at the bar that evening, he was tired and struggling to settle.
“You look tired,” Mark said when Allen reached the table. “Maybe you should have stayed at home instead of coming out.”
Allen managed a small smile. “I wanted to come.”
“As long as you’re sure.”
“I am.” Allen smiled, then took a sip of his drink. He still hadn’t heard back from Rick, and the silence had been bothering him all day.
They let it go and talked about office drama and someone’s landlord and the new café that had opened down the road. Allen nodded along and tried to keep a smile on his face, but his body wouldn’t settle. Every time his thoughts drifted, they snapped back to the same thing: Rick’s old phone in his sock drawer, the notes inside it, and the way Rick had saidyeswithout blinking.
The TV above the bar had been running sports highlights all night with the sound low. Halfway through Connor’s story,the picture switched. The channel changed to news, and a red banner crawled across the bottom of the screen.
HIT-AND-RUN NEAR VENUE DISTRICT — DRIVER FLED SCENE
Allen stared, his eyes widening. On-screen, a shaky clip played from someone’s phone. Lights. People shouting. A body on the road with a jacket thrown over part of it. Someone pointed down the street and kept talking with their mouth moving too fast.
Mark kept speaking, but Allen didn’t catch a word.
Connor followed Allen’s gaze and glanced up. “Jesus.”
Allen forced himself to look away from the TV, but it was already in his head. Venue district. Driver fled. A blurred shot of a car shape that meant nothing and everything.
He tried to swallow and couldn’t get it to go down cleanly. He lifted his drink, took a sip, and tasted nothing.
“Are you alright?” Connor asked.
