She’d already proved that to herself, though.
Which meant she had to call Cam. He had to stand witness to her lack of bad fortune.
Now that she was here, though, she had to admit that maybe this hadn’t been the best plan. After all, Cam truly believed, and he truly loved her. Which meant he’d go to any lengths to see her safe.
She had a sudden vision of the inside of a broom closet, and frowned. Surely, he wouldn’t really…
In the past, she wouldn’t have worried. It was just Cam back then. But now he had Jenna, and as much as Darcy loved her new sister-in-law, she also knew that Jenna was now a believer, and would undoubtedly assist Cam in locking Darcy in a padded room until after midnight. Just to keep her safe.
“You’re not careful enough,” Cam had told her only two weeks ago. Darcy had snorted loudly. He was one to talk, Mr. I-Think-I’ll-Build-a-Rocket-to-Mars-and-Defy-Fate.
But she had to admit that he’d always believed in the curse—he’d just always faced it down.
Not Darcy. She knew bullshit when she saw it. If there was really some horrible curse affecting all four of the Franklin kids, then shouldn’t one of her elder siblings be dead by now? A morbid thought, maybe, but true. A theorem required proof, not coincidences masquerading as proof.
No, the only reason her siblings were constantly getting April Fool injuries lay with the name of the day: they were fools. Fools who believed they’d have bad luck, and so, poof, they did.
The clackety-clack of the train took on a slower rhythm, and she rose, realizing as she did that her purse felt significantly lighter. She glanced at it, then realized there was no it to see. All she had was a strap, now hanging loosely over her shoulder, the ends neatly sliced, as if by a razor. The purse itself was gone, and so was the stinky guy with yellow teeth.
A small niggle of something familiar started to whisper in the back of her head. A voice that once again sounded like her.
A voice that was saying, “I told you so.”
Well, hell.
THE RINGING PHONE TAUNTED Evan from across the room. Usually, he left it by his bedside, and he could easily roll over and answer it. Last night—at the tail end of his fit of productivity—he’d left the thing sitting on his desk, which happened to be located exactly eleven feet from his bed. He knew, because he’d meticulously measured the seven hundred and fifteen square-foot condo six years ago before he’d decided to open a vein and bleed money into the Manhattan real-estate market.
The phone rang again. Eleven feet, zero inches. Not an overwhelming distance, but one that would require him to get out of bed.
He really didn’t want to get out of bed.
Another ring.
Shit.
With a groan, he rolled to face the offending instrument, wishing Ma Bell—or whoever was in charge these days—came with valet service. A Jeeves to walk the phone to him on a silver platter and announce that Mr. So-and-So was calling. Or, better, to tell him that a telemarketer was on the line, and that Evan shouldn’t trouble himself and to please, sir, go back to sleep.
Riiiiinnnnng.
He closed his eyes and waited while the closest thing he had to his fantasy Jeeves picked up the line. “Hi, you’ve reached Evan Olsen with Midtown Magazine. I’m unavailable right now, but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
“Yo, Evan. You there? It’s Cam. Pick up. I’ve got a crisis.”
His buddy’s voice filled the room, and Evan crossed those eleven feet without even thinking about it. “Hey. I’m here. Shit, it’s April first. You battered and broken?”
Cam cleared his throat, and Evan knew that his friend had in fact suffered his annual injury. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—it was those injuries that had brought Cam and Jenna together—but Evan couldn’t help but shake his head. The Franklin Family Curse. Evan was a believer, and he wasn’t even a member of the family, just a longtime friend.
No, it was more than that. He was a friend, yes, but he was also wrapped up in the curse. Cam had joked that Evan got the yin while the Franklins got the yang, but Evan knew better. He’d gotten the short end of the stick, too. He just couldn’t tell anyone.
What had happened was that he’d stood up for Cam one April first against the wrath of Cam’s mother, and somehow Evan had walked away a hero, with all the perks that came with it—those particular perks for a fifteen-year-old being much attention from girls. Good on the surface, maybe, but not underneath.
Before that, he’d been just another guy. Noticed, because he played football and was Cam Franklin’s friend, but nothing special. After, though, he was The Man.