I “hmph” my answer, but thankfully, Drake doesn’t take it any further.
“So, why’d you run out?”
I take his hand and pull him the few steps to the parking lot then toward his truck. Wisely, he stays quiet until we get there and I can speak. I tell him about my conclusion in the service and my text exchange with Carlton.
Drake runs his tongue over his teeth, my newest theory running around his mind as he tries to make sense of it. “But that doesn’t help us,” he finally says after a minute or so of silence. “We don’t know who it is.”
“I know. There has to be a…” Ding ding, we have a winner!
“To be a what?”
“There has to be a way to find out who was at the service. And there is!” I fist the front of his shirt and excitedly jump up and down. “The sign-in book! You can’t go in unless you sign! Father Luiz is like a hawk!”
Drake’s lips flatten into a thin, grim line. “Do you really think that the killer used his real name?”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Why does he always have to burst my bubble?
“But we’ll be able to find out what the fake name is, and then we’ll have the killer’s handwriting!”
“And no handwriting from a suspect to test it against.”
Again with the bubble bursting.
I jab my finger into his chest. “Then we’re just gonna have to find the killer and get his handwriting, aren’t we?”
“That’ll probably be easier than his semen,” Drake drawls, pulling his keys from his pocket. “What are you gonna do? Force every male in town to write that name and see what matches?”
“Can I do that?” I ask hopefully.
He stops, wraps one solid arm around my shoulders, and pulls me into him. His upper body is shaking, and I can feel his smile against the top of my head. I try to pout into his chest, but the escaping rumble of laughter from him just makes me smile.
“Technically, you could, but you’d be on your own. I don’t see Judge Barnes signing a warrant for the handwriting of every inhabitant of Holly Woods on this particular day.”
I sigh through my smile. “Dammit. I really thought we were onto something there.”
“Bless you,” he mutters, dropping a kiss to my head.
I roll my eyes and extract myself from his grip. “It’s ‘bless your heart,’ and I’d like to think you could say, ‘Fuck you,’ to me by now without sugarcoating it.”
He says nothing as we get in the truck. Then, when I’m belted in, he looks at me. I beat him to speaking.
“Oh! Are you doing anything for the rest of the day?”
“Yes. Working,” he drawls like I’m stupid.
I slap his thigh. “Bastard. I mean in particular, because I happen to have the address of the most local satanic sect leader and we could always go and question him.” I waggle my eyebrows like I’m offering him a day in bed with me or something.
“When the fuck did you get that?”
“This morning,” I reply nonchalantly. “It’s in the file, but I didn’t get to tell you because you dragged me out of your office as soon as you could.”
“Dammit, Noelle! You should have told me!”
“I just told you why I couldn’t!”
“You should have told me anyway!”
“Excuse me if, between your caveman antics and my grandmother’s wedding dreams, I didn’t quite manage to spit it out.”
Drake rubs his hand down his face. “Here we go again.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means here we go again.”
“But I don’t know what that means.”
“I’m going to count to ten in a minute.”
“Good. Then I have ten seconds to shoot you!”
“Jesus fucking Christ, an angel is crying at your bullshit,” he mutters, turning the key and bringing the engine to life.
I snort. “Nah, you already gave them all a panic attack. God’s got his eye on you, and we all know what he did to Adam and Eve when they fucked up.”
“He kicked them out of Eden, Noelle. Now, unless the bank suddenly became God, I think I’m pretty safe at home.”
“Banks are God. Bunch of dictators.”
“You’re the most random person ever. How do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m charming and good in bed, obviously.”
He mutters something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“It was me agreeing with you, sweetheart,” he says in an attempt to placate me. “Have you had your cupcake today? We all know how you get without sugar.”
“Drake Nash, you’re so damn lucky you’re driving or your balls would be going on my fireplace. I’d paint them orange and they’d be my little pumpkin ballsacs.”
“Okay, first”—he cuts his eyes to me—“you’re not making pumpkin anything out of my balls. Neither are they going on your fireplace—physically or otherwise. Second, we’re gonna stop by Rosie’s between the station and the sect leader’s house and get a box of cupcakes. Clearly, hungover Noelle is a sugar-craving Noelle.”
I pause for a moment then gently pat his thigh. “You’re learning. Atta boy.”
He pulls up outside the station, kills the engine, then looks at me. I expect him to reply, but he just shakes his head and gets out, mumbling to himself about difficult women.
I’d take offense, but I am difficult. It’s a better quality of mine.
If difficultness, stubbornness, and a heavy dose of passion are my better qualities, I’m starting to wonder what that says about my worst qualities.
The interview was a bust.
Mr. Rivers, the leader of the sect, couldn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. Satanism isn’t evil, they don’t blood sacrifice, they use orgasm and consensual virgin sacrifice, yada yada yada.
I wanted to point out that virgin sacrifice is technically also blood sacrifice, given that most women bleed a little, but yeah. My brain-to-mouth filter is clearly present today.
I’m still thinking about what Drake said outside the church—about Alex. I get the feeling he knows something about him that I don’t, and it’s bugging the heck outta me. Why wouldn’t he tell me? He’s quick to remove Alex as involved with the murders, but I’m not. He knows too much, and he always seems to pop up in my suspect areas.
I wonder if he has alibis…
Then again, if there’s no proof he’s involved, he doesn’t need an alibi. Ugh. How frustrating.
“So, what did Jessica really want this morning?” I ask, twirling some spaghetti around my fork.
Drake lifts an eyebrow. “To give me evidence. And ask me to brunch.”
“I’m gonna have to shoot her soon, you know.”
“Or I can just have her banned from my office.”
“Didn’t that already happen?”
He pauses. “Crap.”
“Besides, she’ll just try to come to your house,” I say around a mouthful of food.
He throws a napkin at me. “I can get a restraining order, you know. I am a police officer.”
I swallow. “Yes. Let’s get Holly Woods’ leading homicide detective a restraining order against the mayor’s assistant. I can see Judge Barnes signing that in an instant. He wouldn’t be up to lose his job at all.”
“You’re so dramatic. Obviously, I’m not going to get a restraining order against her.”
“So that means I can shoot her.”
“No. It does not mean you can shoot her.”
I huff and reach for my glass of water. “You’re so…law abiding. Go on. One little bullet to the foot accidentally. No one will know.”
“You have a serious obsession with shooting people in the feet.”
“A matching scar for you is always up for grabs. If Jessica is lucky, I’ll give her the pair at the same time.”
“You’re insane.”
“It runs in my family.” I set my glass down and twirl spaghetti again. “I could implicate her in murder. Would you help me cover one up?”
Drake looks at me flatly.
“That’s a no,” I mutter.
“You’re kind of obsessed with Jessica. You know that, right?” Drake finally says. “She does nothing but annoy me. She’s like the fly that keeps banging into the closed window, but you just… Well, she incenses you. You don’t even get this mad at me.”