“Cupcakes? Really, Noelle?”
“Look, if I have to suffer for two and a half hours in a car with you before I’ve even started investigating, I’m gonna need me a sugar fix.” I shrug. “Otherwise, I’m just gonna be a total bitch to people who can help move this case forward.”
He slides his sunglasses through his unruly hair so they balance on top of his head and shoots me a disdainful look. “Noelle…”
“What?”
“You’re lyin’.”
“Not about the sugar fix.” I sniff and turn away.
Busted. Totally. Typical.
“Why’re we interviewin’ her at a cupcake café?”
“Because Gigi’s is closed today?” I sigh, staring out the window at downtown Houston as we turn off onto one of the ring roads. “I just have a bad feeling about this whole case. I just know that, one way or another, the husband is connected.”
“You think he killed them?”
Them. I hate that. “I don’t know. It’s just a hunch.”
“I can’t arrest people on hunches.”
“I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bug some people on my hunch.”
“Bugging people gets you into trouble in murder investigations, Noelle, and I already told you it ain’t safe for you.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly unarmed.”
“Didn’t I text you and tell you to leave the gun at home?”
“Oh, that text was you?” I gasp as we pull into the parking lot outside the mercifully quiet café. “I accidentally deleted that before I could read it. Whoopsie.” I send him a sweet smile as I hop out of the truck.
I decided to forgo the heels today for cowboy boots. So there’s a two-inch heel, but that hardly counts. I can also run in them… And you never know.
Drake mumbles something under his breath and opens the door to the café. A lone woman with long, blonde hair tied in a ponytail at the top of her head is sitting in the corner, and I recognize her instantly as Regina.
“Regina?”
She looks up with violet eyes. “Noelle Bond?”
“That’s me.” I smile and offer her my hand.
We shake, and Drake steps forward.
“Detective Drake Nash,” he says.
“Are you with Houston PD?”
“No, ma’am. Holly Woods, the town Lena lived. I’m off duty.”
“Some people think I have a knack for getting into trouble and need supervision,” I say. Kinda. I do occasionally. “My brothers are also cops at home and no one could get away, so I’m stuck with Detective Nash for my chaperone.”
“It could be worse.” Regina smiles, giving him a once-over.
If I cared, that would bug me.
“Okay, Mr. Off-Duty.” I turn to Drake. “I need a low-fat vanilla latte and a chocolate torte cupcake. Please.”
“Anything else, diva?”
I purse my lips. “Regina? Can we get you a coffee?”
“A cappuccino would be great. Thank you.” She shoots a flirtatious smile toward Drake.
I stop my eye-roll. Just.
“I was real shocked to hear about Lena,” she says softly when Drake goes to the counter. We both sit. “And you don’t know who did it?”
“No. Her childhood best friend was also killed and found not long after she was.”
Regina’s hand goes to her mouth. “Oh no. Are they related?”
“We think so.” My lips flatten into a grim line. “Regina, I need to ask you something. Did you know that Lena was married in her senior year?”
The paling of her face tells me she does.
I raise my eyebrows.
“Yes,” she says softly. “I don’t know anyone who didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” Drake asks, rejoining us. He sets three coffees on the table and passes me my cupcake.
I thank him with a smile.
“That Lena was married,” Regina answers, her eyes moving to him. “Literally everyone in our class knew. She barely made it through the rest of the year to graduation.”
“Why? She was old enough to get married.” When Regina doesn’t acknowledge me, I cough. Not discreetly.
Her lips twist to the side in something that resembles a disgusted kind of smile. “Yes, but she married her professor.”
“Well,” Drake says after she’s gone. “That was unexpected.”
“The twists always are,” I murmur, absently licking some frosting off my plastic fork.
“Her professor.” He shakes his head. “Who’da thought?”
“Not me.” I put some more cake in my mouth and lick the fork again.
“Can you stop licking that fork?”
“No. I eat when I’m stressed.”
“You’re makin’ me fuckin’ stressed, Noelle.”
I meet his eyes. They’re blazing with heat, focused on my mouth intently. And, I, er, stop licking the fork.
“Can you concentrate?” I ask. “This is a huge piece of the puzzle that is Lena’s and Daniel’s deaths.”
“Then stop lickin’ the fork.”
I slam the fork down and bite into the cupcake and the huge pile of frosting on its top. “Better?” I demand, my mouth full.
Drake’s lips twitch. “As long as you don’t lick your lips now.”
“This is highly inappropriate, considerin’ we’re colleagues now.”
“I’m off duty.”
“I am not.” I pin him with my gaze and slowly, deliberately, lick my lips.
His gaze follows the path of my tongue as it moves sleekly and swiftly across my mouth, and it takes every inch of my willpower not to laugh at him.
“We should talk to the husband,” he growls, slowly dragging his eyes from my mouth up to meet my own darker eyes. “Now.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
He says nothing for a moment. Then, “Will you find out?”
“I didn’t hear a please.”
“You fuckin’ with me, Noelle?”
“You should know by now that I’m always fuckin’ with you, Drake.” I grin like the Cheshire cat and whip my cell phone out, dialing Bekah’s number. Honestly, with the way this case is going, the only person I trust is my best friend.
“Yo, ho,” she answers. “Whaddyah want?”
“An address.” I rattle off the findings of our meeting and wait as she looks up the directory online.
“One Professor Warren Gentry, thirty-four sixty Piping Rock Lane, Houston, seven-seven-zero-two-three,” she answers. “You headed there now?”
“Yep,” I reply. “It’s Sunday. We should catch him.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
“Always am.”
Drake snorts as I hang up, because as he’s said a million times, I’m not safe. Apparently. Apart from two dead bodies having been dumped on my property, I see no evidence to support his claim. Which makes me think he still knows something I don’t.
We drive until we reach the River Oaks area. My eyes widen as we drive through the residential streets. The houses here are fucking huge. Like, mini mansions. They must be worth anything from one to two million bucks.
How the hell does a college professor in art make this much money?
“How the fuck does a college professor make this much money?” Drake asks, verbalizing my thoughts.
“If I knew, I’d be switching professions like three years ago,” I hum, staring at the beautiful houses.
They vary from two to three stories, but almost all are several windows wide with winding driveways, each varying in length. Their front yards are immaculate and well-tended without as much as a grass blade out of place. Lord forbid a bird poop over their yards—they’d probably pull out platinum-plated rifles and shoot the poor little shit.
Why didn’t I pack those fucking heels?
Surrounded by houses and people who obviously drip diamonds and wealth, I feel like a hillbilly in my goddamned cowboy boots. So what if my jeans fit perfectly and my white, three-quarter-length shirt hugs my boobs?
I realize now I dressed for information and not sophistication.
Let’s hope Professor Gentry is somewhat of a darn letch, or we’re screwed.