Текст книги "Twisted Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

If life were simple, I wouldn’t have a job.

That’s the conclusion I’ve come to this morning after calling two poor, cheated-on spouses and asking them to come in for their answers. That’s also the conclusion I’ve come to as I’ve thrown this murder case file in the trash three times and picked it up every time.

If it were simple, I’d know who the killer was. I’d know why these people were killed—and, in Portia’s case, almost killed. If it were simple, I’d know the who, what, where, why, and when of every single detail.

If it were simple, I wouldn’t see Drake’s eyes every time I close mine.

I slap my cheek for what feels like the tenth time in the last hour and attempt to focus on the file in front of me. It’s entirely useless though. My mind is filled with the craziness of last night, the revelation about Marshall, and the fact Nonna has called an impromptu family dinner in approximately four hours to discuss my date last night.

My date that ended up with me being kissed by another man.

Yeah. It’s no wonder I’m single.

I drop my head to my desk and rest my cheek against the cold surface, facing the park. Sometimes, I miss Dallas. Small-town blood runs through my veins, but I miss the electric life of cities. I miss the anonymity that comes with living in an apartment block bigger than the town center and not knowing every single person you pass on the street.

I miss the huge police force and the fact it was incredibly easy to avoid my ex-boyfriend after we broke up. It was also really easy to avoid him after the time we slept together after we’d broken up. It was even easier to avoid the rookie officer I found him shacking up with after we’d broken up for a second time.

Actually, she is the reason we broke up for the second time.

There, I could go somewhere and be left alone. I could disappear for however long I needed—work hours not included in that—and just breathe and live and fall into silence. I could switch the world off and allow my mind to go over whatever case I was working on. I could sit and just think until I came through with a thought that could change everything.

Here in Holly Woods, it’s an impossibility. If my staff doesn’t need me, it’s the police, and if isn’t the police, it’s my family. If I turn my phone off, they come to my office or house, and if I try to hide in Austin, they send out a goddamned search party.

Just once, I’d like to be able to disappear and allow the hive that is my mind to breathe.

The case and the deaths and the attempted death and the suspects and the lies and the truths and the unanswered questions—they don’t connect in any way. Usually, serial killers, like I can assume this person is, have a strict plan. Their MO doesn’t change and they aren’t afraid of being caught. They’re methodical and almost OCD in their actions. But this guy isn’t.

Why did Portia suspect she was being poisoned? Hemlock is a fast-acting poison. She’s lucky she caught it before her throat swelled.

Why was Daniel caught in the aftermath of Lena’s death? Was it a coincidental act because he saw who the killer was when they intercepted his delivery of her salad?

Why was Lena killed? Did her multiple lives finally catch up with her?

The ridiculous lack of DNA is the biggest hindrance we have. There’s nothing to connect anything in any kind of way. Only the manner of death and the placement of their bodies.

If Portia had been killed, where would her body have been placed? In my shed? My house?

And if I’m really right and I’m the one single thread holding all three victims together, then I need to carry my gun with a bullet in the chamber all the time.

“Why,” I say as my office door opens after one single knock, “would Portia be targeted? What’s her connection to Lena and Daniel?”

“She has a thing for younger men.” Devin answers smoothly, closing the door. “She and Daniel had a previous relationship several months ago.”

“Huh.” I lick my lips, still staring out the window despite the ache in my back. “And Lena and Daniel?”

“You know it.”

“So she was married to Ryan but seeing Daniel. Ryan’s fears were entirely justified, it seems.”

“As the story goes.” He hits the cushion before he sits down. “It wasn’t a new thing. Lena and Daniel were in a very open, very happy, very private relationship. Had been for a number of years.”

Slowly, I move to sit upright, looking at him. “So, what are you sayin’? Are we looking at a lover? Past or current? Someone angry with their relationship?”

“Like Ryan?” He raises his eyebrows. “Yes.”

I flip through my call log and hit Ryan’s name, tapping the speaker button as the call connects. “Ryan. I need you to answer something for me.”

He hesitates, before he says, “What is it?”

“Did you know that Lena and Daniel were in a relationship?” When he doesn’t answer, I say, “Ryan?”

“Yes.” His voice is thicker than it was a moment ago, and I swallow at the thought that he’s crying, because the single word was packed more emotion that I’d thought were possible. “Yeah, I knew. How could I not? They spent so much time together. They were more than friends.”

“So, why did you marry her?”

“She said yes. She never backed out. I thought that maybe, if we were married, she would learn to love me more. That I’d be enough for her.”

“Oh, Ryan,” I say softly. “But you weren’t.”

“No. I never was. She knew about Penny, you know. She just didn’t know about the baby. I denied that. She didn’t care. She was happy with our relationship. She’d go do her thing with Daniel when she was taking inventory and I’d see Penny. Then we’d come home and fuck each other with our anger and sleep it off.”

“Thank you. That’s all I needed.” I hang up and look at my brother. “What kind of relationship is that, Dev?”

“A seriously fucked-up one,” he replies, leaning back. “But you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Come again?”

“Drake.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t shit me, Noelle.”

“If I had a relationship that was worthy of conversation with that man, I’d tell you. As it is, I don’t, so can we discuss something that’s worth my time, please?” I shake the annoyance Drake’s name has brought off.

“Jesus, Noelle,” he says, leaning forward onto my desk. “You’re gonna let him treat you the way he did last night and tell me there’s nothing between you?”

Fucking hell, Brody. I’m gonna kill him.

“There isn’t,” I return, my voice steady and harsh. “I had no desire to participate in his…actions…last night. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want to sit in on that interview, and I sure as hell did not want that pig to kiss me!”

“Yeah,” Drake says from the doorway. “You did a real good job of pushin’ me away.”

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” I stand, grabbing my desk as though the wooden piece can anchor me to the ground.

He strides across the room, ignoring my brother, and hands me a small, white envelope. “This is my warrant allowing me to access all the information on the files you gave me before the termination of our agreement. Per your request last night.”

I take the envelope from him, swallowing, and force myself to meet his eyes.

Cold. Hard. Unfeeling.

Just like I knew they would be.

“Thank you, Detective. Is that everything?”

“It is. Just remember to call us whenever you find some information that may pertain to our investigation.”

“As I always have.”

“Indeed,” he says coolly. “You have the direct lines to your brothers. You can call them.”

Them. Not me.

“I intended on it.” I inject a dose of indignation into my voice and straighten. “Kindly call ahead next time you drop into my office. I’m a very busy woman.”

“As evidenced by the fact that the very important meeting your receptionist insisted you were in is with your brother.”

“Until you know the contents of our discussion, keep your comments to yourself,” Devin says, standing next to Drake. They stand almost eye to eye, and the narrowing of Devin’s dark gaze matches the angry twitch of his arm.

Drake steps forward. “Remember, Officer Bond, that I’m your superior.”

“Remember, Detective Nash,” Devin replies, his voice steely, “that you’re not my superior, and I’m more than certain that mine will accept me defending my sister after the way you treated her last night. So, until you are my superior, step back and stay the hell away from her.”

I inhale at the rocketing tension, but my heart misses a beat at his protectiveness. Sure, I can handle Drake and anything he throws at me. But it sure doesn’t hurt to have my brother stand in front of him for me and give him a piece of his mind.

“The way I treated her?” Drake questions, his eyebrow quirking. “I was doing my job, Bond, and I was utilizing the resources available to me.”

“I didn’t realize kissing was in your job description,” I murmur, glaring when he looks at me.

“La famiglia e tutto,” Devin says, ignoring me entirely. “Family is everything. Do your job, but don’t fuck with my sister while you do it. She’s the only woman in this town who demands respect, and by fuck, Detective, I’ll die makin’ sure she gets it from everyone who thinks they’re above it.”

Drake faces him off for a long time before turning to me and simply saying, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Bond.”

I exhale slowly as he walks out of my office and closes the door behind him. The second he leaves, it’s as if the room fills with air again, and my lungs burn as I breathe in sharply and cover my face with my hands.

How can one person have such an effect on you? How can they make you feel as though you’re going to suffocate just by being in their presence?

And isn’t that the thing with Drake? He’s either setting me on fire or taking my breath away. Maybe they’re synonymous. I don’t know anymore.

Maybe they’re one and the same where he’s concerned.

Maybe he takes my breath away as he sets me on fire. Or maybe he sets me on fire while he takes my breath away.

I just know that he does both, and he does it with alarming ease. Like he breathes it or his heart beats for it. Like he takes every ounce of oxygen from my body and steals it just to give it back and take it away again and again and again.

Like he lives to torture me in the most pleasurably painful way. In a way I didn’t know existed.

I didn’t know it was possible to want someone and despise them at the very same time.

“Noelle?” Devin says quietly, his rough voice slicing through the silence that descended the second Drake left. “You’ve been staring at your palms for a few minutes now.”

I drop my hands, swiping them at my cheeks, and look at him. I look at Devin’s smoothly shaved jaw, his perfectly straight, short hair, and his dark eyes, and a piece of me warms with the comfort and safety that looking at my brother brings me.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice breaking halfway through. “For standing up for me then. Even though you could get in trouble.”

“Are you kidding? Sheriff Bates is more concerned about the way he treated you in front of half our employees yesterday.” Devin grins. “Mrs. Bates also requested the gossip.”

I smile, but it’s weak. Just like how I feel where Drake is concerned. I’m strong until he touches me. Then I melt into the largest puddle of muddy, clumpy, gloopy glue because he does something to me that infuriates and attracts the hell out of me.

“Well, tell Mrs. Bates I’m sorry, but there is none. And tell Sheriff Bates that big, bad wolf Drake Nash isn’t going to scare this little piggy off.”

“Then why you cryin’?”

“Hay fever,” I lie immediately, angrily swiping at my cheeks.

“Twenty-eight years and she never suffered once. Some jacked-up detective pisses her off and she’s a chronic sufferer,” he mutters, walking around my desk to me. Then he wraps his arms tight around me.

I return his hold, only lighter, and rest my head on his shoulder. “He’s not pissing me off,” I sniff.

“She’s also a dirty little liar,” he laughs, squeezing me. He pulls back, grabbing my arms. “Listen to me, Noellie Bellie.”

“You haven’t called me that since I was nine,” I whisper, smiling.

“Because I save it for the real big guns, yeah?” Dev grins. “Listen to me, Noelle. Don’t let him get to you. He’s pissed. For some dumbass reason, he’s real pissed at you. And men, well… Our asshole gene takes over when we get pissed, ’kay? So just let him be a giant fucktard and keep kicking ass the way you are, and eventually, he’ll come around. Eventually, he’ll give you the respect you deserve. And if he doesn’t, there’s a high chance I’ll lose my job.”

I laugh softly, wiping another tear from my cheek. “I don’t know, Dev. What’d I ever do to him, huh?”

“Well, you shot him in the foot for starters.”

“Twelve years ago! Damn, y’all just can’t get over that, can you?”

“Mostly, we like pissin’ him off with it,” he replies, his eyes sparkling. “But back to you, yeah? You can do this, sis. You can solve this case, okay? ’Cause it don’t matter a damn that you don’t carry a badge anymore. You’re a cop by blood and that’s one thing you got on him. He breathes cop. But you live cop. And living is a hundred times more important than breathing. You can breathe and not live. But you live, so you breathe, and if who could solve this case were a betting pool, my life savings are goin’ on you. And those are goin’ on a kickass engagement ring for Amelia, so don’t fuckin’ let me down.”

I squeeze him tight, unable to stop the upturn of my lips. Goddamn it, I’m so lucky to have the family I do. I truly am.

“I got it. Now, when are you proposing?”

“I dunno.” He releases me and steps back. “Gotta see if I have to bail your ass out of jail first. Not sure I trust you around Drake until he’s on his knees and washin’ your feet when you solve his case for him.” He winks when he gets to the door.

My smile grows. “You’re crazy. No bail money, okay? I promise to behave. For now.”

“The ‘for now’ is what worries me.” Those are his final words as he scoots through the doorway and closes the door behind him.

Left alone, I lower myself back into my chair. I kick my shoes off and haul my feet onto my desk, pulling my Fucking Brilliant notebook onto my lap. I click my pen and open my notebook to the next blank page, writing the three victims’ names and circling them.

Then I open my drawer, pull my neon Sharpies out, and designate each victim a color simply so I can keep track of their relationships.

Daniel and Lena. Daniel and Portia. Portia and...

Lena?

Maybe I should have avoided the second cupcake, I think idly as I throw the wrapper in the trash can and my head lolls back onto my sofa. Especially since I’m still being forced into going to my parents’ so Nonna can assault me with her endless questions I could barely give a crap about right now.

I lasted all of ten minutes with my Sharpies and notebook before I packed everything up, said a giant, “Fuck it,” and left work early. I figure I have a ton of paperwork-type stuff to do, like payroll and all that crap, so I can be at home, in my sweatpants, and still work.

My intention was honorable, but the reality is that I’ve done next to nothing. If you don’t count e-mailing my accountant and telling him that I’m too swamped to do payroll, so if I pay him extra this month, can he please do it for me?

He, of course, agreed. And I ate a cupcake in celebration of my ability to delegate tasks to others.

I’m sure that’s something worthy of celebration. It’s kind of like how, next week, I’ll delegate the bathroom deep-clean to one of the guys. I conveniently have a nail appointment right before the day I scheduled it.

But that’s the fun of being the boss. You can make everyone else do the shitty things you don’t want to do.

I wish I could delegate this case though. I wish I could grab one of them and say, “Hey, you’re doing this full time and I’m taking your cases.” After all, I did allow them to open business back as usual when it became clear we’ve done nothing but run around in circles since this whole thing started.

No point having four of us on the case when there’s barely enough work for one. And it’s a good thing, too. Now, without the collaboration with the local police department, I’m back being plunged into the dark.

All I have are the basic facts.

I hope that’ll be enough.

I take a deep breath and decide I am most definitely in the middle of a tragedy and desperately need some clarity. Everyone I know is plunged deep into this case. I can’t discuss anything with anyone who can bring a completely unbiased opinion to this.

I snatch up my phone and my keys and call my parents’ landline, knowing Nonna will answer.

“Pronto?” she answers.

“Nonna,” I say, pulling away from my house. “I won’t be able to make dinner.”

“Noella!” she gasps, and I can imagine her clutching her pearls in horror. “Why-a not?”

“I’m going to church.”

There’s nothing except the sound of her breathing filling my car for a long moment. Then, “Scusami?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m going to church, Nonna. I need some peace.”

“You want-a me to come?”

“That doesn’t exactly fit in with my plan of peace,” I respond dryly. “No, thank you. I will be just fine.”

“Si, si. You find-a clarity on-a your love life, si?”

“Yes. That’s exactly it. I’m going to have a gossip session with God.”

“Ah! He will-a help you! You no like-a Gio?”

“No, Gio was just fine, Nonna. I just want to make sure a second date is the right thing to do right now.”

“Ah! I will let-a you go! Go!” She hangs up.

The woman just does not understand sarcasm.

I shake my head and park in the small lot next to the church. Holly Woods Chapel is just about the prettiest building in town. The classic Gothic style is reminiscent of the time period in which it was built, and careful restoration efforts over the last few decades means that the tall spires, traditional glass windows, and intricate detail on the main body of the church are as beautiful and preserved as they are in the very first pictures of the church.

Leaving my phone locked in the car, I pocket my keys and walk toward the small but imposing building. I’ve always had a strange relationship with my religion. I’m Catholic by necessity—Nonna would drop dead if we’d been baptized as anything else, and it’s the one thing Mom has never fought her on—but I’ve never truly…grasped it.

Maybe I’m too much of a realistic person. My logical mind and inquisitive nature require steadfast proof, real evidence, and definitive answer. Since religion can’t provide any of those, I’ve always hung in the balance of a believer and a nonbeliever.

I believe in something. I believe that somewhere out there—in the sky, deep in the oceans, in the heart of the forest, buried under the desert—there’s something bigger than all of us. I truly believe that, one day, we’ll face the consequences of our actions, whether that thing is God, karma, or plain old justice.

Sure. I don’t have the proof that there is something there. But I don’t have the proof that those things don’t exist, either, do I?

I open the heavy wooden door and walk into the church. As I knew it would be midweek, it’s empty until Father Luiz holds his midweek session tonight. I like it this way. Silence. Peace.

This is probably the only place I have left to get that.

I walk slowly through the church, my eyes focusing on the large stained-glass window that fills the back wall. The sunlight hits it full on in the late afternoon, and spots of color are dancing around the room, the brightness of the depiction of Mother Mary almost too bright to look at.

It’s the only one the church has, but it’s the only one it needs.

I take a seat on the third pew from the front and exhale gently. The table set up to the side in Lena and Daniel’s memory is reminiscent of a shrine, and I know that Father Luiz will leave it there until their killer is found. He’ll believe that, as long as we can see their faces, their spirits will stay with us and justice will be served.

I hope he’s right.

Closing my eyes, I tuck my feet beneath the pew and breathe. The calmness of the building seeps into my skin, and with every exhale, I feel a little of the tension leave my body. If even an ounce of it leaves, then I know I’m much lighter. I wish it would take the confusion and stress and questions with it.

If only I could exhale the questions and inhale the answers.

If only I had the strength to walk away from this investigation.

“Hey, God, Jesus, Karma, whoever you are up there. I know I don’t come here as much as I should, but could you help me out a little here? People keep getting poisoned, and it would be really great if you could tell me how to fix this mess, you know? And if you’re not gonna do that, could you make my next ten cupcakes calorie-free? It’s the least you could do if I have to continue onward in this crazy maze of a case. Also, calorie-free wine and margaritas would be great. I’m just sayin’.”

A low chuckle makes me open my eyes, and I see Father Luiz standing at the front of the church. His hands are clasped to his front, and his light-brown eyes are alight with the smile on his tan face.

“Hello, Noelle.”

“Father,” I say sheepishly. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, girl. Your request was very reasonable, and I’m sure you’d get a lot of backing from the other women in town.” He winks. “Your grandmother called and said you were coming. I was, naturally, intrigued.”

Guilt riddles me. “I don’t come as often as she thinks I should, I know.”

“Ah, but you come when you need to. And isn’t that the beauty of belief? You don’t have to be connected all the time to feel the benefits of it. Just because your faith isn’t as strong as Liliana’s doesn’t mean you can’t come whenever you must.”

“Doesn’t it bother you? That people…like me—people who don’t feel the same as you do—still find comfort in your church?”

He smiles and takes the seat on the pew next to me. His eyes are fixed on the cross depicting the crucifixion hanging above his pulpit. “Quite the contrary, my dear. I don’t judge others for their beliefs—that is not my job. And this church? It is not mine. Rather, I belong to it. It’s been standing for years before I was born, and it will stand for many after my death.”

“That’s a very realistic view.”

“Because I am a priest, I cannot be realistic?” His eyebrow quirks despite the fact that he never looks at me.

“Oh, no, of course not.”

“Fret not, child. This world… It is a peculiar one, no?” He clasps his hands on his lap. “Belief is relative. Religion is optional. Here is the thing, Noelle—no one can make you believe anything your heart isn’t fully into. No one can dictate to you your feelings or dreams. And that means no one can offer you any more or less than your heart declares, as long as your heart is strong.”

“What if it isn’t though?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. “What if the person you think you’ve been is someone other than who you are? What if you don’t actually know what your dreams are?”

“Do any of us know it, really?” Father Luiz asks, finally turning to me. “Can any one of us say that, definitively, we know what we want? Or is what we want simply a figment of our imagination, proven or denied at the point where we thought life would serve us our desire?”

Huh. I never thought of that way. I admit that, too.

“My dear, common sense is relative. Religion is relative. Belief is relative. Life is relative. All we can do is wake up each morning, breathe the air we are given, and take hold of life the way it intends us to, whether that be gently or fiercely.” He pats my hand. “For me, the Lord dictates my life, but he allows me the freedom to make the choices that ultimately end up at his decisions. If you so believe, you will have the same courtesy. If not, then, well, I believe the good Lord will allow you the same courtesy anyway. Like I, He does not discriminate upon beliefs. He fears nothing, not the least free will. If you have free will, you will always have a semblance of belief in the man I and so many others call Father.”

I shift, slightly uncomfortable. I’m not used to such a deep religious conversation. But I can’t stop. A part of me wants more.

“What if I have questions without answers though? What do I do then? Do I stand by and wait for innocent people to be hurt, or do I go with my undecipherable gut feeling and risk losing it all, Father?”

His lips curve. “Ah, Noelle, now are you asking me about your job or about your personal life?”

“If I knew, I could answer your question.”

“Then it’s both.” He shifts just a little. “Personally, I go with my gut feeling. I believe in impulses and righteousness. If your gut is telling you something, you follow it. Our instincts are rarely wrong. If they were, we wouldn’t have lived so long.”

I close my eyes again for the briefest second, allowing his words to wash over me like a cold shower on a red-hot summer day. Everything he said has made perfect sense, and in the strangest way, it has allowed me to organize the chaos of my mind.

“Thank you, Father. I think I know what I need to do now.”