The door leading into my yard is slightly ajar, and instinct tells me to check the lock. There are scratches on the plating around the keyhole, just like there are on my office door handle.
Anger filters through me like nothing I’ve ever felt. This shit is fucking personal now. When I find who did this, I’m going to put a bullet through their head so they can’t damn well do it again.
My house. My space. My sanctuary.
Completely violated.
I take a deep breath to rein my emotions in and look at the clock on the kitchen wall. Three thirty in the morning. Keeping my gun close to me, I turn on the yard light and make sure I really am alone before I head upstairs for my phone. The deck is clear, and so is the grassy area just beyond it. The shed though…
Barefoot, I slide through the gap between the door and the frame and pad across my yard. The shed is completely untouched from what I can see.
Happy there’s no one here—sad there’s no one for me to shoot at—I run back into the house and up the stairs. I grab my phone from under my pillow and dial Trent’s number, slowly moving through upstairs, which is, thankfully, untouched.
“Noelle?” he answers groggily. “What—what time is it?”
“Th-three-something,” I answer, my jaw chattering. The adrenaline is rushing out of my body at a speed faster than I can deal with, and the reality of what’s happened sinks in.
Someone broke into my house.
Oh God.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is clearer, stronger, more demanding. His cop-mode.
“Someone just broke in,” I whisper, feeling my throat clog. “To my house.”
“Grab your gun. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Noelle!” Dad yells, my front door slamming open.
“I’m here,” I reply.
He takes one look at me sitting on the stairs, my knees to my chest with my arms wrapped around me, and sits next to me, his arms wrapping around me. “Bella ragazzo,” he murmurs, pulling me into his chest. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt?”
I nod. “They knocked over one of the chairs in the kitchen. They must have panicked and ran. They didn’t come upstairs.”
“Noelle!” Trent’s voice thunders through my hallway.
“Jesus, I’m right here,” I say, standing up and going right down. “And yellin’ at me ain’t gonna make me appear any faster if I weren’t.”
My big brother looks at me. Then, in one swift movement, he pulls me into him. He squeezes me tight, and we repeat the conversation I just had with Dad.
Seconds later, Brody and Devin appear and I have the conversation again, and then my house is swarmed by cops. They ask questions and take photos and explore my house. I stand quietly near my family, still wearing my Snoopy shortie pajamas. At least I kept my bra on last night.
Sometimes, you just have to think of things other than the tragedy unfolding before your eyes.
Round and round the HWPD go. More questions, more photos, and fingerprint sweeping until there’s layers of fine, black dust across my house.
“Y’all are gettin’ that cleaned, right?” I give the lead guy, Detective Rory Spencer, a hard look.
“Yes, ma’am.” His lips twitch up. “Someone will be by this mornin’ to see to it.”
“Good.”
Dad laughs and rubs my back. “Why didn’t your alarm go off?”
Holy crap. My alarm!
I rush over to the main box by the front door. It’s completely disabled.
“Noelle!” Devin snaps. “Did you forget to set it?”
“No!” I turn to look at him. “I set it every night. And I know I definitely did last night.”
“Maybe there was a delay—the guy got there before it went off,” Brody suggests.
“What kind of alarm has a delay?” Dad asks, coming to look at me.
“Not mine,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around my waist. “But it was definitely set. I’m more likely to forget to turn it off, not turn it on.”
A shadow falls over me from the doorway. “Just can’t help gettin’ into trouble, can you?”
“Vaffanculo,” I snap, turning to Drake.
His hair is messed right up, and the jeans he’s wearing have a tear in the thigh, his T-shirt crinkled and his underwear band just showing above the waistband of those torn jeans, which are oddly sexy. Memories of my dream flood back, and I fight the blush wanting to color my cheeks bright pink.
“What are you doin’ here?”
He nods toward Trent. “He called me. Told me you were in trouble. Again.”
“If you’re gonna start givin’ me shit, Detective, take a fuckin’ number because someone already beat you to it. I can only take so much crap, and my quota for today is already overflowing.”
“Then I’ll make sure I hold in my crap until tomorrow morning.”
“Please do.” I turn away from him as Detective Spencer comes back and tells me that they’re done and someone will be over to clean my house up of the awful powder by lunchtime. I hand him a spare key from the kitchen drawer and watch as everyone trails out.
My father and brothers all check another ten times that I’m okay, that my guns are loaded, and that I’m not going to have a serious mental breakdown if they leave.
“You’re stayin’ at home tonight,” Dad orders, standing in the doorway. “Home, home.”
My worst nightmare, but it’s useless to fight him on this. “Okay, Daddy.”
He steps forward to kiss my forehead, shakes Drake’s hand, and then leaves, closing the door behind him. I take a deep breath and look around the mess that is my house. I don’t even need to ask who did this. It was the murderer—or whoever’s been cleaning my files out.
And I know exactly what they were looking for.
“You all right?”
I shake my head. No. No, I’m not fucking all right. I’m as far from all right as I can possibly be right now.
“They take anything?”
I shake my head again. I’m not sure I can speak right now. The tightness of my throat combined with the rolling of my stomach has me desperate for oxygen. I take another deep breath in, but it’s not enough, and it leaves me too quickly, and I need more—more air, more air, more air.
The room. It’s spinning. My lungs burn. My mouth is dry. My eyes are wet. My cheeks are hot.
I can’t—
“Noelle.” Two large, rough hands frame my face for a second. “Breathe.”
I fall against Drake’s chest, hot tears spilling from my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. My breaths are giant, harsh gulps that have me trembling against the warmth of his body.
He gently wraps his arms around me, but his hold is anything but. It’s tight, and the safety that quickly engulfs me slows my breathing just a little. It’s like everything else but his embrace blurs slightly, and the feeling of being entirely cocooned by his anchoring hold is overwhelming in the best kind of way.
“Hey,” he says once my breathing has returned to normal and my crying has slowed. “Better?”
Oh, good grief. I just sobbed all over Drake Nash.
“Yes. Thank you.” I straighten and step back.
He loosens his arms around me but doesn’t let go. “Are you sure?” His eyes search my face, glowing with concern.
“Yeah. I just…” I sigh heavily and wipe at my cheeks.
“Your badass gene calmed down.”
I glare at him—or try to. His fingers twitch at my sides just before he drops his arms, and the way his lips pull up makes me smile a little, too.
“I think most people refer to it as adrenaline,” I comment.
“But not many single women check out their own house during a burglary when there’s a chance the suspect is still there.”
“I had my gun.” I chew the inside of my cheek and look away.
“Precisely. Your adrenaline is a badass gene that flares the fuck up every now and then.”
Moving toward the desk and gathering some papers up, I smile a little again. “I’m surprised you’re not yellin’ at me for not calling someone right away.”