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He knew he was staying in Pemberley voluntarily. Still, he couldn’t escape the feeling that the paparazzi were his jailors.
The ringing phone provided a welcome relief; he’d even take a telemarketer offering him a new roof. Hell, he’d take the new roof if the guy would come and talk to him.
Maybe I’m getting a little desperate. Maybe I should hire someone to come and talk to me.
He grabbed the cordless handset. “Yeah?”
On the other end of the line, Burton cleared his throat. “Will, a warrant’s been issued for your arrest.”
Chapter Seventeen
Just when Darcy thought he couldn’t sink any lower, now he could feel the tug as he was pulled inexorably, spiraling down a drain. I was wrong about just wanting this to end. He’d take five more days, ten, thirty, a year of uncertainty over the certainty that they would arrest him. “What?” he croaked into the phone. He had known, theoretically, that this was a possibility but hadn’t allowed himself to believe it would actually happen. I haven’t done anything wrong.
“I’m sorry, Will. Officers are on the way over to take you to the station. I advise you not to give them any trouble.”
Darcy briefly considered what would happen if he ran away. But it wasn’t easy to go on the lam with a famous face. No matter how he disguised himself, someone would recognize him.
“I’ll cooperate.” His voice sounded calm even though Darcy felt as if a superball bounced around inside his body.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Good. I’ll arrange bail. You probably won’t have to stay overnight.”
Jail. Oh my God. They were talking about jail. He experienced a kind of incredulous sense of unreality combined with nausea. How had it come to this?
Somehow he managed to keep level, almost dead, tone in his voice. Well, at least the acting training was good for something. “What should I take with me?”
“Nothing valuable; no jewelry, rings, no cash in your wallet, no credit cards. Just your driver’s license and your phone.”
Darcy tried to imagine what jail would be like, but the whole thing seemed fantastical and horrible—a nightmare, like trying to imagine visiting Hell.
“Will, are you still with me?” Burton’s voice sounded very far away.
“Yeah.”
“There will be media—shouting, lights, cameras in your face, the works. There’s nothing we can do about that. Just cooperate with the police and don’t say anything, okay?”
Darcy forced the words out despite feeling as though he were agreeing to his own execution. “Okay.”
After hanging up, Darcy stared at the wall and wondered what one wears to get booked in jail. What would fashion gurus advise? Loose, comfortable clothing? Look your best in up-to-date styles?
What am I wearing now? He had to look down. Sweatpants, bare feet, and a t-shirt that had seen better days five years ago. Yeah, I don’t want to be filmed like this. If his arrest would be on the cable news, he shouldn’t resemble someone who would give drugs to a teenage girl.
But Darcy didn’t move. He simply didn’t have the energy to go upstairs and change.
Pulling out his phone again, he flipped it to the only picture of Elizabeth he had. Taken on the In the Shadows set, it showed her laughing unrestrainedly at something that Jane had said. Covering Jane’s image with his hand, he stared at Elizabeth, happy, uninhibited, warm, and alive. God, he’d never talk to her again, would he? He’d never see her again—except maybe if she came to the trial. Oh, hell. Would they ask her to be a witness?
He peered out the window again, and his entire body clenched. There they were. A procession of two black-and-white police cars with lights flashing (but no sirens) and an unmarked car—most likely inhabited by the two detectives he had spoken with before whose names he couldn’t recall at the moment. What did that procession represent? Five police officers? Six? Why so many? It’s not like he was an international assassin; he didn’t even own a gun.
No, it was more likely that everyone wanted to be part of the action. “Yes, Grandson, it’s true. Once I helped to arrest William Darcy. Did you know he was wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt?”
I really should go upstairs to change. But there was something mesmerizing about watching the flashing lights of the police cars as they snaked their way up the steep driveway.
Then they stopped.
All three cars came to a halt when they were only halfway up the drive. Did they feel the need to storm Pemberley? Were the officers going to get out and take selfies before they arrested him?
There’s a possibility that I’m getting a little hysterical, Darcy mused in a rather detached way.
