“Noelle, sweetheart, if I thought tearin’ you a new one would make the slightest bit of damn difference, I would. I didn’t come over when Trent called because I was angry. I came ’cause I was worried about you.”
“Right.”
An awkward silence hangs between us for a long moment before Drake comes up beside me with a stack of papers. “Anything missing?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
“Do you know what they could have been looking for?”
“I have a damn good idea.”
When I don’t speak for a moment, he asks, “And that is?”
“Wait here.” I close one of the drawers. Fisting the bottom of my pajama top, I turn and walk out of the room. I’m totally aware of the fact that his eyes are firmly on me as I walk away from him—just like I am about the fact that my butt cheeks are possibly creeping out from beneath the bottom hem of my shorts.
But hey. I wasn’t exactly expecting company in the middle of the night.
In my room, I crawl up onto my bed and bend over, grabbing the pillow from the side I don’t sleep on. Then, without a care, I shove my hand inside it and pull out the flash drives I’ve had hidden there ever since I bought them.
The sound of a throat clearing behind me has me jerking to the side and sitting up straight.
“What are those?” Drake asks, pretending to look at my hand. Instead, his eyes are focused on my chest.
“Flash sticks,” I answer, centering myself and standing up in front of him. “Here.” I put the drives in his hand with enough force that his eyes quickly pull themselves upward to meet mine.
“And why would they be looking for these?”
“Because,” I say, walking back downstairs. “Those drives have every Bond P.I. case on them.”
“And by every, you mean…”
“I mean I turned off my surveillance camera in my office, copied everything over in private, then brought them home with me,” I tell him as we enter the kitchen. “If another murder happens, I don’t want to be running around like a headless warthog on steroids looking for a goddamned file. I want to know I can pull it and all its details in seconds.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I reply dryly, shoving cutlery back into its drawer so there’s enough space for me to clean out the coffee machine and make two cups. “Take them. Keep them at the station.”
“Are you admitting that I’m right?”
“That I’m not safe?” I pause in my cleaning of the machine and glance at the glacier-eyed detective with a stance so powerful that he fills the room with just his charisma. “Absolutely. You are right. I’m not safe—but I never claimed I was. I claimed I was strong enough to protect myself. And I would have if the assdouche had hung around for long enough.”
He laughs, sitting at the table in the center of the room. “Not doubtin’ that for a second. Your badass gene sure knows when to come to life.”
“Badass gene or not, I’m an Italian-Texan woman in a family full of cops. I’m passionate and shoot before I think. You only fuck with me if you’re stupid.”
“Some would call that ‘passion’ anger or attitude.”
“No, I don’t get angry, or mad, or pissed. I get passionate.” I glare at him and put a mug of coffee in front of him. “Capisce?”
“Capisce,” Drake replies with a grin. He tucks the flash drives into the pocket of his jeans and picks his cup up. “You realize it’s five thirty?”
“Really?” A glance at the clock confirms the time. “Crap. The cops were here for ages.”
He nods solemnly and drinks slowly. Tension settles between us, lingering in the air, its threads pulled so tight that just one breath a little too harsh would break it. My eyes flick around the room as I will myself to look anywhere other than at him. The wall, the trash can, yesterday’s water glass next to the sink, the crack on the cabinet door I really need to replace.
Avoidance. Like the tension will dissipate of its own accord if we simply ignore the fact that it’s there.
Drake’s fingers slowly wrap around the mug, each long, roughened digit easily curving without so much as a twitch about the heat.
I blink harshly and look away from his hands. Jesus.
“I assume you’re still refusing to step away from this case.”
I inhale slowly through my nose. “The fact that you question that shows how badly you underestimate me.”
“Fuckin’ hell, Noelle! You were crying in my damn arms not thirty minutes ago!”
“And?” I glare at him. “We’re closer than ever to finding this killer.”
“How the hell have you worked that out?”
“Because every time someone has been killed, my files have gone missing!” I yell. I rub my hand down my face and take a deep breath. “And now, someone has just broken into my house to steal copies of my files. Files no one knew about. Which means I’m being watched.”
“And they’re going to kill again.”
I lift my mug to my mouth. “Bingo.”
I stare numbly as Lena’s casket is lowered into the ground. Bekah’s hand is warm in mine, and she lends me her strength with a gentle squeeze of my fingers.
I never knew how hard it would be to watch a friend die. Not to say I’ve never known anyone who’s died. Hasn’t everyone by the time they’re in their late twenties? Hell, I lost more than one or two colleagues when I was in Dallas. I am the reason one of them died. One bad call on my part destroyed their life and changed the course of mine. One bad call I tend not to think about or dwell on.
But to see someone you grew up with, someone you counted amongst your closest friends… For them to die… It’s heart wrenching.
It doesn’t matter that the Lena I thought I knew was a different woman. Maybe her heart lay in Holly Woods while her legacy lived in Houston through her daughter. Who am I to know which one of her was real? Who am I to judge the decisions she made without full disclosure of her reasons?
Just because her life was a lie doesn’t mean the relationships she forged were.
Dr. Gentry and Melly are standing by the priest conducting the ceremony, dressed head to toe in black just like the rest of us are. Melly stares somberly at the casket, silent tears running down her cheeks, and my heart clenches at her bravery.
The poor girl never deserved this. Melly or her mom.
I take a deep breath as the first dirt is scattered across the top of the casket and the little girl leans over to throw a white lily on it. Smoothly, Dr. Gentry draws his daughter into his arms and holds her tight.
“Poor thing,” Bekah whispers, echoing my thoughts as she rests her head on my shoulder.
I nod in response. My throat is too tight to speak, the sadness of the day and lingering fears of last night feeling all too heavy inside me. Add to the fact that, because of last night, I haven’t slept since I was rudely awoken by my intruder at three thirty and I’m goddamn exhausted.
People slowly disperse from around the graveside, including Dr. Gentry and Melly. One figure remains though. I nudge Bekah and she lifts her head, looking in the same direction.
“Ryan came?”
“Apparently,” I mutter, releasing her hand.
His harsh look at the coffin doesn’t go unnoticed by me, and neither does the tense way he holds himself. Shoulders back, fists clenched, jaw tight—all of these things are contradictory to the tears in his eyes. I take a few slow steps toward him, and like he can feel my eyes on him, he glances my way.
“Ms. Bond?” A tall, thin woman blocks my way, her deep Southern twang familiar to my ears. One look at her confirms my suspicions.
“Mrs. Young,” I reply, offering a sincere yet sad smile. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
She takes a deep breath and dabs beneath her eyes as a man several inches taller than she is but much more rotund wraps his arm around her shoulders. Mr. Young, I presume.
“Thank you, darlin’,” Mrs. Young whispers hoarsely. “Sure is hard, sayin’ goodbye to my baby.”