Chapter 23: Mile High Reckoning
The voicemail was a ghost trapped in her phone. She'd saved it, this awful digital artifact, and then played it fifteen times on the drive to the private airfield. Each repetition sanded the meaning down to pure sound—the tight-throated panic in Darnell's voice, the way he'd inhaled like he was about to jump into cold water. "Lex, I might've messed up bad. Real bad. Don't tell Ma. I’m gonna fix it. I just… I need to think." A pause, heavy with everything he wasn't saying. The faint, telltale crackle of a police scanner in the background. Then the click.
Might've. That was the word that hollowed her out. Not 'did.' Might've. It left a sliver of hope, thin and cruel as a razor blade. And now he was gone, and the police were using words like "person of interest" and "altercation" which, translated from cop-speak in her neighborhood, meant they'd already built a cell for him in their minds.
The jet's cabin was a surreal bubble of muted luxury. Everything was quiet cream and brushed steel. It smelled like lemony polish and new money. It was a world away from the frantic, tear-choked chaos of her mother's living room just three hours ago, the same room that still held the faint, ghostly scent of her brother's Axe body spray.
Mark had made this happen.One call. Maybe two. The details were a blur to her. He’d been a storm of quiet efficiency while she sat on the edge of the bed, vibrating with useless terror. He'd packed a bag for her, his hands sure as he folded her clothes. He’d called his manager, his lawyer, his business partner. Phrases like "family emergency" and "immediate travel" and "discretion" were deployed. His voice never rose, but the authority in it was absolute. The jet, he explained gently, was a partnership perk, a leased asset for business. This was business.
Now, he was across from her in a wide, cream leather seat, his laptop open, his thumbs flying across his phone screen. Contracts. Stream postponements. Sponsorship appeasement. The machinery of his public life was being redirected, all to carve a path for her straight into the heart of the crisis. He hadn't asked. He'd just done it.
"You don't have to come right away," she’d said, her voice small, as they raced toward the airfield in his SUV. "The contracts… your stuff."
He’d just looked at her, the city lights washing over his face. "Are you out of your mind? Stop talking."
Now, she stared out the oval window. Texas was a distant, flat tapestry of brown and green far below, already giving way to the muddy serpentine lines of bigger rivers. Heading north. Heading home. The phone in her lap buzzed again, a silent tremor against her thigh.
Mark: Lawyer says to record every interaction with police. Don't answer questions without them. I have a name.Kevin Rose. He’s good. Connected. He’ll meet us.
Mark: Your mom okay? Mine is calling her in 10. She’s good at this. Better than us.
Mark: Eat the sandwich.
She looked at the small porcelain plate on the table beside her. A delicate sandwich, crusts cut off, some kind of chicken salad. The thought of putting it in her mouth made her stomach clench. The luxury of it felt offensive.
"He told me not to tell Ma," she said, her voice sounding strange in the hushed cabin.
Mark looked up from his screens. He closed the laptop lid with a soft click."Who did?"
"Darnell. In the voicemail. His last words to me were a lie he wanted me to keep." She swallowed, her throat tight. "What if he's dead, Mark? What if they… what if he tried to 'fix it' and it went worse?"
"Don't," Mark said, his voice low but firm. He unbuckled his seatbelt and moved to the seat beside her, the leather sighing under his weight. He took her hand. Her fingers were ice-cold. "Don't borrow that hell. We don't know anything yet. All we know is he’s scared and he’s hiding. Our job is to find him before they do, and make sure he has the loudest, most expensive lawyer in Missouri breathing down their necks when they do."
"He said he messed up. What does that mean? Did he drive the car? Was he the lookout? Did he take a gun from his stupid friend's stupid gym bag?" Her questions were rapid-fire, desperate. She was pre-law. Her mind constructed scenarios, each more damning than the last. Accessory. Accomplice. Felony murder.
"I don't know," Mark said, squeezing her hand. "And neither do you. And those cops definitely don't. They see a young Black man's car at a scene in a certain neighborhood, and their brains fill in the blanks. We’re not letting them write this story."
He sounded so sure. This was a different Mark. Not the content creator, not the boyfriend, but someone who understood systems and leverage. The seven million followers were a currency, and he was preparing to spend it, if needed. Quietly at first. Then not so quietly.
The pilot's voice, smooth and calm, came over the speaker. "We’ll be beginning our descent into St. Louis in about thirty minutes. We’ve got some bumps ahead, so please return to your seats and fasten your belts."
Mark moved back to his seat. The plane dipped slightly, a physical echo of the plummeting feeling in her gut. The 'bumps' turned into a persistent, jostling turbulence that shook the elegant cabin.It felt appropriate. Nothing could be smooth.
Her phone lit up. Not a text. An incoming call.St. Louis area code. Not her mother's. Not the detective's direct line.
Her eyes shot to Mark. He was already leaning forward, his face alert. "Kevin Rose?"
"I don't know." Her thumb hovered over the answer icon. The phone vibrated in her hand like a live thing.
"Answer it," he said. "Put it on speaker."
She did."Hello?"
"Is this Alexis Moore?" A woman's voice.Young. Nervous."Yeah. Who is this?"
"It's Lina. Lina, Darnell's… friend." The pause was telling. Girlfriend. The one her mother called "that fast girl" but Darnell swore was just misunderstood.
Alexis’s heart jackhammered."Lina. Do you know where he is? Is he okay?"
"I seen him." The girl’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Last night.After. He came by my cousin's spot. He was freaking the fuck out, Lex. He was bleeding."
"Bleeding? Where? Was he shot?" The questions tumbled out.
"Not shot. Like… his hand was messed up. Like it got slammed in something. He wouldn't say. He kept saying he was stupid. He took my cousin's old phone, a burner. He said he couldn't use his. He said the police would be looking for his."
Mark was scribbling now on a napkin: BURNER. GET NUMBER.
"Did he give you the number? Lina, please. We're trying to help him. The police are looking for him. They think he was involved."
"He didn't give me no number." Lina’s voice cracked. "He just said… he said to tell you he was sorry. That he tried to stop it. He said it wasn't supposed to go down like that. Then he left. He was crying." She started crying now, too, the sound wet and scared over the line.
Tried to stop it. The words hung in the antiseptic air of the jet. They changed the shape of the 'might've.' Not a perpetrator. A bystander who got too close? A failed intervention?
"Lina, listen to me. If he contacts you again, you have to tell him to call me. Tell him we have a lawyer. A good one. Tell him not to talk to anyone. Do you understand? He cannot talk to the police without the lawyer."
"I'll tell him." A sniffle. "But I don't know if he'll call. He's real scared."
"Just tell him, Lina. Please." Alexis gave her Mark's number too, as a backup. She hung up, her body trembling with a new, volatile mix of fear and a sickening hope.
"He tried to stop it," she repeated, looking at Mark.
Mark’s face was set, intense. "That's what we tell the lawyer. That's the narrative. But, Lex… he still ran. He’s still hiding. A bleeding hand at a shooting scene… that’s physical evidence. They’ll say it's from a struggle. From a gun jamming." He was playing devil's advocate, thinking like the prosecution she one day hoped to be. "We need that burner number. We need to find him before his fear makes him do something even dumber."
The plane dropped suddenly, a steep lurch that pressed them into their seats. The city was visible now through the breaks in the clouds, the Arch a tiny silver stitch by the wide, brown river.Home. It looked like a trap.
"Almost there," Mark said, his gaze fixed on the window. His jaw was tight. "We’re gonna land, we’re gonna meet Kevin, and then we’re gonna go see your mom. One thing at a time. Just breathe."
But breathing felt impossible. The only thing that felt real was the ghost of her brother's voice in her ear, scratching with static and desperation, a voice trying to outrun a truth that was now chasing them all down at 500 miles per hour. The jet wheels screeched as they hit the tarmac, a violent, grounding sound. The rush began.