by 
Fisher Stanton, Valley High School’s Nantucket wannabe, has a cheating girlfriend. When he hires Darcy Walker to chase her to a local club, in true Darcy fashion she stumbles upon a dead body. Thing is, this body has secrets…and Darcy’s mysterious friend, Jaws, and the reporter, Tito Westbrook, have a vested interest. Both enlist Darcy to find the person responsible who has eluded them for years, but Darcy doesn’t solve crimes for free anymore—especially where Jaws is concerned. Knowing Darcy’s Achilles heel, Jaws blackmails Darcy into working for him.
In a true test of wills, Darcy and Jaws battle head-to-head—Jaws needs Darcy to help him end a bitter grudge war; Darcy needs Jaws to divulge the mystery surrounding her mother’s death. Haunted by a past that shaped her present, Darcy will stop at nothing to get answers. Even if it means breaking the law and being disloyal to her new boyfriend, Dylan Taylor, in the process.
DEFCON DARCY gives Darcy’s demons a name and ties up loose ends that made Darcy into the verb that she is. What she thinks she knows as truth, isn’t. What she wishes wasn’t true…is.
The problem is, when your life goes DEFCON 1, not everyone lives to tell about it.
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When you’re a verb, you don’t always plan your excursions; they just sort of happened. This was the first trip, I admit, that I had to plan. The time ticked at eight o’clock. Murphy and Marjorie had just pulled into the driveway from a trip to the library. To safeguard against getting busted, I clocked in with Murphy five minutes ago and told him I was with Dylan. I clocked in with Dylan and told him I was with Murphy. Wearing commando-black, my lucky hat, and Chuck’s, I quietly lifted my second story window and shimmied my way down the bare maple tree. Jogging to the entrance of BTCC, the air cut through me like a sharp knife on butter.
In the spirit of duplicity, the sky was two-faced tonight like the moon. The east was cloudy, the west a midnight blue with a blanket of stars. I jumped up and down as the chill settled into my muscles, and at fifteen minutes past eight, Vinnie’s pink VW Bug sputtered to a stop in front of the big buffalo sign I hid behind.
This was what I liked about the misfits—when you told them to masquerade as someone else or break into private property on the sly, there were no questions, only a “What time?”
