There were a lot of Dylan Danielses in the world. A Realtor in Las Vegas. A teacher in Maine. A ten-year-old spelling bee champion in Florida.
There was also a Dylan Daniels who had something to do with stock car racing.
I scanned through the links:
Car Explodes in NASCAR Nationwide Series Qualifier.
Driver Suffers Third-Degree Burns, In Critical Condition.
Vigil continues for NASCAR driver Dylan Daniels.
After that—nothing. No news. No mention after August 16, 2011. Not a word after the crash.
I scrolled back up and clicked on the first link.
Beneath the headline about the crash was a picture of a man. Close-cut hair, intense dark eyes. A square chin. But his lips…they made my breath catch in my throat.
Those lips were like…I didn’t even know. They were beautiful lips. On such a harshly masculine face those lips were like a wink from God or something.
The caption under the picture said: Dylan Daniels before the accident.
That was Dylan? My Dylan.
I leaned in closer to the screen, as if I could see him better. If I could reach through that screen, I would.
He was beautiful. Intense. Those eyes…those lips. The combination was nearly painful. Divine and wicked all at once.
I skipped ahead to the article.
The world of stock car racing was totally foreign to me and my brain was buzzing, but I understood that in a second-tier series NASCAR race four years ago, Dylan lost control of his car and crashed. He’d been burned in the fire. Badly.
I sat back and gasped for air. I’d been holding my breath. There was a photo of a car in the green area at the center of the track engulfed in flames. A crew in the corner, rushing toward the fire.
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
I clicked through and there were dozens more of those photos, the fire from every angle. Crews spraying down the fire, a body being removed from the window.
Dylan. That’s Dylan’s body.
There were tons of pictures of Dylan before the fire, of that man with the lips and the intense dark eyes and that chin that looked as if it had been carved out of granite. A thick, powerful body. He was often with a tall and willowy brunette, with a giant rack, their arms around each other.
I stared at those pictures, burning them into my brain because I was if nothing else a glutton for punishment.
What did you think was going to happen? I wondered. That by pretending to be someone else you would actually be someone else? You’re still you.
And what I had always been was unwanted.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Pulled from this strange horror show, I looked up to see the librarian behind the desk looking at me.
“Your time is up.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You signed up for a half hour. It’s up. If you’d like more time you need to sign up again.”
The library was nearly empty. There was no one standing behind me, itching to use the computer.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“We need to prove that the—”
“Computers are an asset. I know.” Truthfully, I needed to get going. I had a backseat full of groceries. And I’d found out what I’d come to find out. Dylan Daniels had been a handsome, playboy race-car driver.
But after the fire? Nothing.
Not a single image. Not a single word.
It was as if he vanished.
“I’m going.”
On my way out, I bought three more books from the book sale.
“Hey!” a voice said as I was leaving, and I turned around and saw a smiling blond guy walking in the door as I was walking out.
“Hi,” I said, stepping back.
I had, over the years living in the same place surrounded by people who were not stupid—who probably, if they didn’t know specifically, had a very good idea of what my life was like with my mom, and probably with Hoyt—learned how to keep this small sea of distance around me. By keeping my face calm, my eyes distant, by giving no one any reason to think that I cared about their concern, I could usually keep the questions at bay.
Years of practicing this face—and this guy didn’t seem to notice.
“We met here at the library a few weeks ago,” he said. “I was…I’m a cop. I was wearing my uniform. My name is Grant.”
I glanced down at his red shirt. The black shorts. Under his arm was a stack of books.
“Right,” I said. He’d knocked on the window and asked if I was all right while I’d been having my freak-out. “Good to see you again, Grant. I’m…ah, I’m Annie.”