WHO IS LIKE GOD

11.

LA FAMILLE DE CÔTE.

DARCY WOKE to her phone ringing.

She'd fallen asleep on her bay window, curled around the pot of her Maidenhair Fern, her knees tucked close to it like it was a part of her. The hanging leaves sat on her nose and she blew them away. There were only three people that ever bothered to call her: Tamara, Eli (when she felt so inclined), and Victoria.

Darcy pinched her phone between two fingers and observed the caller ID. It was a number she didn't know, Scam Likely. Darcy rarely ever really used her phone unless it was to answer calls or to make them. Tamara didn't really believe in them, neither did Darcy. They spoke of phones occasionally, boiling tea in their cramped little kitchen or sitting by the fire in their cramped little sitting room, like phones were mythical creatures and not objects both of them had. Tamara often lost hers in the clutter that was their home. Darcy kept it in one place and she only kept it to forget about it. Victoria had shown her how to personalize the ringtones. There was a specific one for her— wind chimes.

Wind chimes did not sound from her phone then, and Darcy felt something in her crack. Instead, the generic tone sang its tune and then faded when Darcy didn't answer the call. If there was one thing the entire Sinclair household was in agreement on, it was to never answer strange numbers.

"That's how they track you," Eli would say. Darcy could never tell if she was joking or not, Eli joked so often. "Then they chip you."

She rose from her bed. Outside, the sun dipped into the sky and sent waves of rose gold across the street. She set the Maidenhair Fern with her other plants. Darcy wasn't yet ready to face Tamara or Eli or even herself.

She picked up the spray bottle on her desk and began to spritz the various plants' leaves. Florence hadn't killed Victoria. The droplets of moisture peppered her fingertips as she gently lifted the leaves. The air in her room was crisp. Every open space was cluttered with hanging green and the occasional burst of color. The egg carton/paint palette had been removed from Eli's bed as well as her torn pieces of clothing. She must've come in while Darcy slept. But if they hadn't done anything, where was she? Should she call the police? But if Victoria had her phone, why didn't she call the police? Darcy hand stilled its spraying. Would the police even believe her? Would Florence confess what had really happened She set the bottle down. She needed evidence. Indisputable evidence.

Darcy slouched back into her desk chair. Victoria's parents... When was the last time she'd seen them? They must've been taking the news worse than she was. Victoria was their child. Darcy was just a friend.

Her phone rang again.

Darcy ignored the call. The same number flashed across the screen. Frustrated, she shoved it between the cushions. The silence lasted for three beats before her indignation made her skin itch. She slammed her door open and stormed down the stairs. Darcy tore her coat from its rack and struggled to put it on through her frustration.

"Darcy?" Tamara's voice came from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," she ground out, "I'm going out."

Tamara emerged from the kitchen smelling of onions, pepper, and lemon. Her hands were lifted in front of her face and covered in something. "Where are you going?"

"Out. What are you making?"

"Fish and rice. Where are you going? Are you okay?" Darcy took too long to answer and Tamara propped her wrist on her hip. "Don't play with me, Louise."