دیمین

DAMIEN RIVAS

2:22 p.m.

Death-Cast did not call Damien Rivas because he isn’t dying today, which he considers a shame because he’s not very impressed with the way he’s been living his life lately. Damien has always been an adrenaline junkie. New roller coasters every summer he met the required height. Stealing candy from drugstores and cash from his father’s pouch. Fighting those who are the Goliath to his David. Starting a gang.

Playing a game of darts against himself isn’t exactly thrilling.

Talking to Peck on the phone isn’t exciting either.

“Calling the cops is some little bitch shit,” Damien says, loud enough for his speakerphone. “Getting me to call the cops goes against everything I stand for.” “I know. You only like the cops when they’re called on you,” Peck says.

Damien nods, like Peck can see him. “We should’ve handled that ourselves.” “You’re right,” Peck says. “The cops never even got Rufus. They’re probably giving up because he’s a Decker.” “Let’s get you some justice,” Damien says. Excitement and purpose surge through him. He’s been living away from the edge all summer and now he’s inching closer and closer to his favorite place in the world.

He imagines Rufus’s face where the dartboard is. He throws the dart and hits bull’s-eye—right between Rufus’s eyes.