Текст книги "Tethered Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

He doesn’t respond.

“Are you serious?” I turn to face him fully. “You don’t think Dina’s murder has anything to do with what we’re already investigating?”

“Well…”

I look between Drake and Brody. “Do you think the same?”

They both shrug.

“It could be anything,” Brody says quietly. “We really don’t have enough to connect them, and you know that.”I take a deep breath and look around the apartment, from the bohemian throw cushions on the sofa to the gauzy fabric peeking out from beneath the thick, red, velvet curtains framing her windows.

They’re deluded if they think this isn’t connected. They’re totally fucking crazy if they think Dina’s murder is unconnected to the others.

I get it. I get that they have to treat it as a potentially individual case because of regulations.

Well, guess what? I don’t have to abide by that bullshit. I don’t have to listen to that crap or follow those rules.

So, while they’re treating Dina’s murder as unconnected until proved otherwise, I’m gonna be treating it connected until they hand me concrete proof that it isn’t.

“What’s this?” Drake asks, pointing at the calendar.

“That’s called a calendar,” I tell him dryly. “You know—those things people use to keep track of the date and their appointments?”

“Hardy fuckin’ har,” he grinds out through a tight jaw. “I mean what’s written on it.”

“Those are called words,” I chirp happily, moving across the room.

“I’m gonna fire your ass in a minute.”

“You wish.” I bump my hip against his so he moves to the side and look at the calendar. Oooh, cats. Pretty calendar.

Focus, Noelle. Fuck it.

“See it?” Drake asks, cupping the back of my neck with his hand. He massages it gently.

Not entirely sure if he’s doing that to relax me or simply keep me in place.

It works for both.

I scan the date section of the calendar, ignoring the brown-eyed tabby on the picture above it. It has the expected things on there for the average store owner—meeting with her accountant, delivery dates, and the like—and the fair is starred out with red pen, one for each day. This weekend’s trip isn’t on it, however.

“Her trip isn’t on it,” I point out. “It was last minute.”

“I did notice,” he says. “But look—the letter A with a star is on every other day of the fair. It’s nowhere else. See?” He flips the bottom page up to reveal July, and he’s right. August is the same. No little A anywhere.

“What’s A?” I ask, looking at him.

He presses his lips together. “Not what. I think the question is: Who?”

The music from the fair rides fills the air. The hazy glow of the bright, fluorescent bulbs from the rides reaches high into the night sky, blocking the stars from dotting the darkness. The rich smell of candy and fried food filters between each stall and ride, temptation oozing all around me.

Resist the fucking hot dogs, Noelle. Resist. The. Hot. Dogs.

You’re not here to eat. You’re here to find Jackson Bullock and unravel the mystery of his relationship with Dina White.

There’s something there.

My phone buzzes in my butt pocket, and I pull it out. I can only see one word of the message from Drake, but it’s enough to make me want to shove my phone out of eyesight and continue with my mission.

Another missing. Headed to station. Meet at yours.

Short but not so sweet.

I’ve given up hope that any missing girl will show up alive. It sounds bad, but even though Lilly Paul turned up safe and sound, it feels like every missing girl reported in the Austin area will eventually be found dead. I wonder how many parents are waiting for their daughters to call them right now. How many are wondering whether it’ll come or whether they’ll hear the click of a key in the door?

How many of them are wondering if their children will check in this weekend?

How many of them are afraid to take their daughters to school for fear they’ll never come home again?

I text Drake a simple K. Clutching my phone, I head for the place where I know Jackson’s stall is.

Someone has to unravel this mystery. Someone has to figure what the hell is going on in this town.

Shit, this town is home. It’s everything and then some to me. And, despite the previous issues, people just don’t turn up dead in Holly Woods. Not at this rate. Not for some hateful, seemingly random, religious crime.

The worst religious crime ever recorded was when Liliana Bond told Betty Hooper that her soul was cursed by the devil and hit her with her rosary because she got two full houses at bingo. It resulted in a heavy sigh from Sheriff Bates, a month-long ban from the bingo hall, and an envelope of Betty’s Chihuahua’s poop through the mailbox. Nonna responded by putting the head of a dead raccoon in Betty’s.

Apparently, old ladies are vindictive as fuck.

I guess they’ve had a long time to hone their bitch streak.

For what it’s worth, we were all too afraid to question the raccoon head. It was four years ago.

My stomach flips as I turn onto the walkway where I know Jackson’s ice cream stall is. I might have to avoid the hot dogs, but I could sure go for some—

Behave. Fucking hell.

Jackson Bullock is your typical teenage boy. At least, I’m assuming he’s a teenager—the blotchy, red acne dotting his chin alludes to as much. His dark hair is cut close to his head, and if he didn’t have the cutest smile I’ve ever damn well seen—Silvio not included, because who tops a four-year-old?—I’d wonder how he draws the giggles of these teen girls.

I get in the line of only three people and watch him interact with customers. He gives the little girl at the front extra sprinkles with a wink. The identical boys behind her earn themselves an extra cherry on the top each. The young couple in front of me get extra scoops.

How does this kid stay in business?

Ah—I see. The free shit.

To paraphrase Yoda: The smarts are strong with this one.

“Hi! What can I get for you?” Jackson asks as I step up to the stall.

Yep. He’s definitely a teenager.

I glance over my shoulder. No one is behind me. I love it when that happens.

“Actually, I’m not here for ice cream.” I shrug sheepishly. “I was hoping we could talk.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “We haven’t met, have we?”

“No…” I pull a card out from my front pocket and hand it to him. “My name is Noelle Bond. I’m a private investigator and—”

“You’re working on the murders,” he summarizes, staring at my card. He looks up with dark-blue eyes.

“Yes, but I was actually wondering if you could help me with something else.”

“Hang on—let me serve this guy behind you.” He steps to one side, so I move out of the way and wait patiently as he gives the guy his ice cream and rings the order up. “Sorry,” he says, turning his attention to me. “What did you need me for?”

I bite the inside of my cheek but release it almost as quickly. “Do you know a Dina White?”

He stills. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

“Could you—it’s okay. I have time. Serve them.” I smile, gesturing to the family of five and the mother frantically trying to control an obviously tired two-year-old.

The dad shoots me a grateful smile.

When they’re gone, Jackson turns to me. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Could you tell me your relationship with Dina?”

He frowns. “Why does it matter?”

Damn, I hate it when they ask that. “Her apartment was searched earlier today and we saw pictures of you there. It’s pertinent to our investigation.”

“Oh.” He wipes his hands on a dishrag, his eyes scooting around. “Well,” he says in a quiet voice, leaning forward. “It’s not something I talk about much, or my dad, for that matter, because it hurts him, but Dina’s my birth mom.”

My stomach drops. Like a lead fucking weight. “Your birth mom?”

He nods. “I was adop—sorry. Customer.”

Dammit. Y’all go get your ice cream somewhere else!

“Right—Dina.” Jackson comes back and resumes his position, leaning on the counter. “She’s my birth mom. I was adopted as a baby. Dad told me after my mom died, when I was eight. He thought I should know the truth because I was seeing her every year without knowing.” He shrugs. “We’ve had a relationship since I was nine. Every time we come here, I see her. It’s not much, but it’s nice to have that something, you know?”

Oh, God.

This kid.

This poor, poor kid.

How the hell do you tell someone that their mom just died and they are their only next of kin? That we need him to do a formal identification?

“Sweetie,” I say softly, “Do you have anyone who can cover for you? I need to take you to the police station.”

“Why? Am I being arrested for something?”

“No, not at all. I don’t have that power. I just need you to come with me. Please?”

“I… Sure.” He frowns and grabs his phone. His fingers move across the screen at lightning speed, and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Emily will be here in a second. We run it together. The stall.” He waves around.

Two minutes and three sales later, a midteen girl shows up and grabs an apron from the hook on the door. “Don’t be too long. It’s my night off,” she sniffs.

“I’ll be as long as I need to,” Jackson responds, hanging his own apron up. “I owe you.”

She snorts. “Fine.”

He shakes his head as we walk away. “Sisters.”

“Real or adopted?”

“Does it matter?” he scoffs. “Always pains in the asses. Do you have one?”

I shake my head. “Three brothers.”

“In that case, sisters are wonderful.”

I smile at him, and he smiles back.

Sometimes, this job sucks.

Have you ever had the experience of watching an nineteen-year-boy have his heart ripped out?

You don’t want it. Trust me.

I’d barely delivered the news to him, but I saw it. I saw the very moment that sweet boy’s soul shattered. He screamed that I was lying as tears streamed down his face. Even as two officers came in and restrained him, he kept up his show of denial until the initial hit of pain had left him.

The whole time, I sat there. Just sat on the sofa opposite him. Even as he threatened me. It doesn’t matter to me—I know he didn’t mean it. It was his first instinct: to hurt the person who’d hurt him.

I had a feeling he’d be the kind to fall apart. I had the feeling that Jackson Bullock was a soft soul and the news would break him. It sounds like Dina was all he had for his heritage, the only connection he had with anyone whose blood runs through his veins. It’s almost as if he lived for the two and half weeks in Holly Woods, where he’d see her.

Now? Now, it’s gone.

Now, he has nothing.

He has nothing but the memory of what was, the hope for what could have been, and one hell of a broken heart.

I wish it could rule him out. I wish it means he could be wiped from our suspect list, but even the most cold-blooded killers can be the most devastated in front of the police. There’s no reason to doubt that Jackson’s reaction is genuine, but there’s every reason to believe it’s exaggerated.

Death is no joke. Murder is even less of one. And, until you can be ruled out, everyone is a suspect.

“Tough, huh?” Trent asks, looking up from the papers he’s flicking through. He’s chewing on a Twizzler out of one corner of his mouth. “Sorry you had to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice. The briefing room was locked,” I mutter, annoyed. I am annoyed. I shouldn’t have been left alone to do that.

The other officers only came in when he kicked a chair.

Either way, Jackson Bullock is now in a cell for his and everyone else’s safety. Taking him to ID the body is but a distant dream unless someone gives him some Prozac stat. That’s the official explanation, but I think they’re lying.

I think they’re testing the fingerprints found at Dina’s apartment to see if they match Jackson’s. The boot prints found outside the store room and on the dusty floor of it are being tested against the shoes he’s wearing, too. At least for size. His relationship with Dina, presence of his fingerprints, and a foot-size match will give them enough to obtain a search warrant for whichever trailer Jackson lives in.

“What about this new girl?” I ask my brother, stealing two candy sticks from his bag.

He reaches to smack my hand but misses. I should know better. Trent concentrates best with some sugary treat in his hand—yet he has the audacity to criticize my cupcake habit.

“Robyn Torre. Twenty years old. Student in Austin and a semi-professional dancer. She’s in a production the college is doing. Left practice last night, and no one has seen her since. She just broke up with her boyfriend, so the roommate called the parents—they live an hour away—in case she went home. Been twenty-four hours and she freaked, called the Austin PD, passed it to us.”

“And no one has any idea where she is,” Brody says from the doorway.

I crane my neck back to look at him.

“Not the best friend, not the ex-boyfriend, not the cousin in the dorm over.”

“What does Dev know? Isn’t he in charge of the missing persons these days?” I ask.

Trent slams his fist against the desk. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know shit, does he? He’s too caught up in Amelia and her endless fight with Nonna. That fuckin’ wedding is gonna kill us all! Elope already, you pair of shitfucks!”

I purse my lips. Slowly, I reach forward and pull a Twizzler from the bag. Then I wiggle it in front of his face. “Here, Trenty-Trenty. Take the twizzy-Twizzler.”

He glares at me and snatches the candy stick from my hand. Biting into it roughly, he huffs. “Shut up, Elley-Belley.”

I clamp my teeth together. “My name is Noelle, fuckwad.”

“And mine is Trent.”

“Fuck me,” Brody hisses. “Twizzlers, Trent’s. Cupcakes, Noelle’s. Don’t make me tell Drake on you.”

I snort. “Please. I’ll have him on my side in fifteen minutes with skills you don’t need to know about.”

He shudders. “Damn right I don’t need to know about them. Can we get some work done? I need to go into Austin to interview the roommate myself. Messina took the call, but he doesn’t have all the case details.”

Trent snorts.

I raise an eyebrow. “All right. I know why Drake hates him. Why do you hate him?”

“He’s an asshole,” he replies without a beat. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Reasonable enough,” I mutter, eyeing the candy again. “So, what do we do about Robyn? Do we just sit around until she shows up dead?”

“You put things so eloquently.”

I turn in the direction of the voice and smile at Drake. “It’s my brain-to-mouth filter. The bitch is on vacation again.”

“She’s never present,” he drawls in response. “And, to answer your question, Brody is going to do the interview right now, and I’m sending a few other officers with him to question anyone who may have seen her the morning she disappeared. We have to assume her abduction is related to the religious murders, and given that she’s been gone for twenty-four hours, we may be too late, but we could find her.”

“And when you say find her, you mean…”

“Yes, Noelle. I mean alive.”

“Right. Just checking.” I bite my tongue. “What can I do?”

“Call Carlton. See if he can borrow information about Robyn Torre. I also want to know what he can dig up on Dina White and Jackson Bullock. Tim is comparing Jackson’s fingerprints to ones found in Dina’s apartment.”

I love the fact everyone now refers to Carlton’s activities as “borrowing.” “Are you going to question him?”

“If his shoe size and fingerprints match, I’m gonna interview him, yeah. I have every reason to suspect Dina’s secret son of her murder.” Drake glances to his left. “Brody? Are you going, or will Isabel Roman be questioning herself?”

“Gotcha.” Brody gives him a thumbs-up and slinks out.

“Trent, I need you to go to the lab in Austin and bug them. I want those results sooner rather than later. The only reason we have Jackson Bullock in a cell is because he elbowed Peters in the nose.”

I cough to hide the laugh that bubbles up, but Drake catches it anyway. Trying to get anything past him is like trying to sneak a steak past a dog.

“Got it.” Trent looks at his watch. “Better call Alison and tell her I don’t need dinner.”

“It’s time for dinner?” I perk up, looking at him. “Tell her I’ll have yours.”

“Nope.” Drake taps the top of my head. “You’re gonna do what I asked and then see if we can put this case together, because right now, it’s like a tub of sprinkles has fallen out of the cupboard and gone just about fuckin’ everywhere.”

“That’s ’cause they have,” I mutter, sighing. “Fine. But can we order dinner?”

He levels me with a steady look that says We can eat when we’re done.

Psh.

The prints came back a match for Jackson earlier this morning.

We spent three hours mulling over every single detail of this case, even as far as going over them twice just in case we missed something that could give us an idea of the killer. Even when Alex—wait, Jason—came down to help us, we got nothing. The only thing we have that relates to it is Jackson’s relationship with Dina, and although we’re all ninety-nine percent sure her death is related to the serial murders, we don’t have proof of that, either.

We don’t have proof of much. There are only so many questions a girl can ask before she looks suspicious, which rules me pretty much out of any further recon trips around the fair.

I’m also highly aware of the fact that my business is falling by the wayside. If I didn’t have such a great team, not to mention a best friend who bounces back like fucking Tigger, then I’m pretty sure Bond P.I. would be a bust. It just strengthens my resolve that, if this happens again and the HWPD decides they need an extra pair of hands, I should say no.

I actually miss cheaters.

Go figure.

Now, I’m sitting in a room with Sheriff Bates, Officer Peters, and Brody while Drake interviews Jackson Bullock with the help of Detective Johnson.

Well, I say help. The man has barely said a word except to triple-check that Jackson is waiving his right for representation.

“Tell me about your relationship with Dina White,” Drake asks, leaning back in his chair.

Jackson shrugs and picks at a thread on his T-shirt. “We were pretty close, everything considered. We only saw each other once a year, but she’d always been a part of it.”

“Did you have much involvement with the store?”

“No, sir. I helped her paint it last year, and there was always something for me to build, but I think it was just her way of keeping me there.” He smiles warily. “She was eccentric and a lot of person for me to stomach. Despite my job, I’m a pretty quiet guy.”

That I can believe.

“She would always have a bookshelf that needed to be built or a frame to be hung, or she’d need her new TV set up. Always happened when she knew I’d be around.” That smile grows, and he looks down. “This year was a new set of drawers for her closet. I was supposed to do it on Friday, but she had to go out of state. I guess, now, I don’t have a reason to build the drawers.”

Oh, man. Right in the feels.

“Why did she go out of state? It was a sudden trip, right?” Drake asks.

“Yes, sir. She told me her aunt was severely ill and she flew to California to see her.”

“When was she supposed to come back?”

“Early on Saturday. She said she’d call when she was home and we’d have dinner together.”

“Did she call?”

Jackson shakes his head. “I got a text around eight saying she was extending her trip by a couple days.”

“What was the time of death?” I whisper to Sheriff Bates.

Slowly, he turns to me. “Saturday morning.”

My eyes dart between the interview and the aging man next to me. “What if she didn’t send that text?”

The sheriff jerks around like a bolt of lightning and slaps Brody’s shoulder. “You. Peters. Dina’s apartment is still a crime scene—y’all get in there and find that goddamn phone.”

“On it, sir.” Brody literally grabs Peters and pulls him out of the room.

“Was that the last contact you had with her?” Drake asks when I tune back into the conversation. “The text?”

Jackson nods. “I thought it was weird. She didn’t really text, but I just figured she was stressed and maybe running out the door. I dunno. I had to run out and get my ice cream truck ready for the day, so I pushed it aside.”

“When was the last time you were in the apartment?”

“Last Thursday, right before she left. I was there when she got the call about her aunt. She left right away and managed to get on a flight a few hours later.”

“From Austin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know if she had any kind of security cameras at the store?”

“I don’t think she did. I asked her about it once and she said Holly Woods is the safest place on Earth and the biggest danger you all face is raccoons rioting through your trash cans.”

Safest place on Earth.

Tell that to the dead people.

“You say you were adopted,” Detective Johnson chimes in. “Who are your adoptive parents?”

“Oh. Uh… My adoptive mom died when I was young, around a year after we started traveling.” Jackson glances up with a shrug. “My dad is Eddie Roy. He owns the cans game.”

Fuck off.

I can see Drake’s shoulders tense from here. I don’t have to be a genius to know that he isn’t Eddie’s biggest fan.

“Was Dina seeing anyone that you know of?” Drake questions, leaning forward.

“No, sir.”

“When we searched her apartment after finding her, we noticed something on her calendar I think suggests otherwise.” Drake pulls a photo out of a file and slides it across the table. “There’s an A marked on the days the fair is here. Nothing else. It doesn’t seem to be related to the business in any way.”

Jackson takes a photo. His shoulders visibly rise and fall, and he scrubs his hand across his face. “All right. I…suspected she was seeing someone. I wasn’t sure. Last year, we didn’t see each other as much, but I thought it was because I’m older now, but this year, it’s been even less.”

“Do you have any idea who it was?”

Jackson runs his tongue over his top teeth.

I bend forward and bite down on my thumb. He does. He’s pretty sure he does, at least.

“Mr. Bullock, if you know something and you’re withholding information…” Drake trails off, sitting back and resting his hand on the cuffs at his hip.

“I think she was seeing Alistair Carpenter,” Jackson answers slowly, looking at the window. It’s obviously a mirror on his side, but it’s almost as if he can see us, as if he’s saying the words right at me. “He’s been disappearing a lot. At least, he was last week. He’s only been gone once since she…died…and that’s because he was with some girl. I think her name was Robyn? I don’t know. Like I said, I keep to myself.”

I slap my hands against my knees. Alistair was with a Robyn? Is it crazy to think it was Robyn Torre? Our missing girl?

“Thank you, Mr. Bullock. That information is real helpful. Can I ask, what shoe size are you?”

“I’m between a nine and a half and a ten, depending where I buy them.”

“Interesting. Where were you between the hours of seven and ten a.m. this past Saturday?”

“Are you—are you accusing me of killing her?” Jackson asks quietly. His voice is barely a whisper, but it cracks halfway through.

“Not at all. Simply looking for an alibi to rule it out. I’m sure you can appreciate that, until we get any more evidence, everyone is a suspect.”

“I was in bed until eight when I saw her text about staying in California longer then headed to my truck to get it ready. We make the ice cream fresh.”

“Anyone who can back that up?”

“My dad saw me leave just after eight, but my sister was sick, so she didn’t help me like usual.”

“So that’s a no?”

“I guess.”

“Thank you. Detective Johnson just has a handful more questions for you. We’ll be obtaining a search warrant for your trailer later today. I hope you understand.”

Jackson nods. “That’s okay. I’d say you could go in, but I still live with my dad and he’s pretty mad I’m here.”

“Understandable. Officer Peters has declined to press charges after the incident yesterday, given your highly emotional state. You’ll be free to leave as soon as Detective Johnson is done with you.” Drake’s chair scrapes across the floor as he pushes it back and stands. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Bullock.”

He stands, adjusts his belt, and walks toward the door. It opens and shuts with a click, silence settling heavily in both the interview room and the one me and Sheriff Bates are sitting in.

“Well, flog my backside and call me Patricia,” Sheriff Bates mutters.

I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, bite down on it, and look up, desperately fighting my laughter. Inappropriate, Noelle. We do not laugh during interviews of a potential murder suspect.

We also don’t tell someone to, well, what Sheriff Bates said, but there we go.

He winks at me right as Drake walks in, bringing with him a thick dose of melancholy and suspicion. He leaves the door to swing shut behind him. It slams, the click of it echoing long after the boom from the slam has silenced.

He looks between us. His icy eyes are calculating and cold yet tired, and he runs his hand through his hair.

“I think we need to talk to Alistair Carpenter. Right now.”

I was afraid he was going to say that.

“I’ll get Judge Barnes to sign off your search warrant,” Sheriff Bates announces, grabbing the arms of his chair to help him stand. “I’ll call when it’s ready and send a team your way. Have we had any word on the whereabouts of Robyn Torre?”

“No, sir,” Drake replies, his jaw clenching. “A part of me hopes it stays that way.”

Because no news is good news.

No news means it’s a Schrödinger’s cat situation. She could be either dead or alive.

But we still have hope she’s alive.

I wish that weren’t all we have.

“Noelle,” Drake hisses, turning onto my road. “Why is your grandmother on your doorstep with that dang parrot?”

“She’s wha—oh fuck no,” I mutter, covering my mouth with my hand.

I just wanted to come home and change my shoes. That’s it. If I have to traipse around the fairground, I want to be in flats. Plus, the arch of my heel is making my foot ache.

All right. I also happen to be very fond of these Jimmy Choo pumps and I don’t want them to get ruined. My Louboutins already came too close to call from that crazy, muddy field.

I reach over and wrap my fingers around his forearm. “Keep driving. Right at the house. I’ll cut your brake lines if you just kill the fucking bird.”

He frowns at me, but his lips are quirking upward. “Noelle, I’m not going to run over a parrot.”

“Fine. Then take them both out. I won’t judge you. Know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?”

“Running over your grandmother?” He parks up next to Nonna’s little, gray Fiat 500.

I stare at him. He’s met her. He shouldn’t even have to question that.

I’ve also thought of taking her bungee jumping and cutting the cord, throwing her off a boat in the Gulf of Mexico, leaving her in the middle of a cornfield somewhere, and telling her she’s going to Florida for a vacation but sending her to a Mexican gang.

Every thought has coincided with a conversation about marriage. Coincidence? I think not.

“Noella!” Nonna waves frantically, a giant grin on her face.

“Will you run me over?” I beg Drake. “Go on. Just a little knock.”

He laughs and gets out of the car. “Hey, Nonna. What’s up?”

Fucking traitor. No more blow jobs for him.

“Ah, Drake! I need-a to talk-a to-a Noella! Her mamma is-a being un-a-reasonable!”

Oh fucking hell. If Mom’s being unreasonable, Nonna sure as hell is.

Seriously—it’s June. There’s still enough time for a thunderstorm, isn’t there? Go on, lightning bolt. Right on my head. Let’s do this.

I look up at the sky. Bright blue with the barest wisp of a fluffy, white cloud made blinding by the brightness of the sun. Epic.

“Why is the parrot here?” I ask, pointing at the cage.

“Hot wench!” Gio barks, following it up with a wolf whistle. “Hot wench!”

Drake holds his fist against his chin and rubs his thumb over his mouth. His smiling mouth.

Definitely no blow jobs for him.

“Nonna. The parrot. Please stop him,” I plead.

“I need-a you to look-a after him-a!”

“Wha—no! I’m not looking after that…that…creature!”

She gasps, flattening a hand against her chest. “That creature is my Gio!” she fires off in indignant Italian, her eyes flaring with offense. “He is my baby!”

“Yeah, well, I hate it,” I tell her, glaring at the bird.

“Hot wench!” he squawks, flapping his bright-green wings.

“Shit bird,” I fire back, pointing at him. “I told you, you little critter, that you’re never getting this ass, didn’t I?”

He stares at me, blinking a beady, black eye. He responds with a high-pitched wolf whistle that makes Drake wince.

“Jesus, Nonna. Do you have any control over him?” He sticks his finger in his ear and wiggles it. His finger. Not his ear. “Or does he come with a volume control? Perhaps a mute button?”

“If we could install mute buttons, my whole family would have one,” I point out. “Especially Nonna.”

Another gasp. Lord, you’d think I just told her she was going to burn in hell.

I might if she doesn’t get that bird away from me.

“Your mamma is-a being-a cruel to-a my Gio,” Nonna sniffs.

“Can’t imagine why,” I drawl.

“It is-a not fair!”

“Neither is it fair for Gio to call her a cazzo wench whenever she walks in the room. Damn, the thing calls me a hot wench and I can’t stand him.”

“Noella,” she pleads.

“No, Nonna. I refuse to look after him. You knew Mom would go crazy and I bet that’s why you got the damn bird. You knew it’d piss her off.”

Nonna doesn’t reply. She pouts the way Silvio and Aria do when Mom puts the cookie tin somewhere they can’t reach.

“No,” I say to her, waggling my finger in her face. “The creature terrorizes me because it has some freaky backwards-bestiality crush on me. Not happening. Take it home or train it.”

Nonna turns her puppy-dog eyes toward Drake.

I spin around and glare at him. “You take that parrot and I swear to God we are breaking up right now.”

He steps back and holds his hands up. “I wasn’t going to. I was going to suggest she guilt-trips Devin into it as punishment for Amelia postponing the wedding, but hey…”

“You’re evil,” I breathe.

I secretly like it.

Nonna gasps yet again. Thankfully, this time, it’s full of happy shock instead of indignant fury.

“Drake! Drake!” She hobbles over, sets the cage on the floor, and reaches up on her tiptoes. She frames his face and smacks her lips against each of his cheeks, leaving traces of ruby-red lipstick blending into his dark stubble. “You-a fabulouso!” She rubs at the lipstick mark and continues in Italian. “You will make a great son-in-law! I can’t wait!”