“I can’t begin to imagine.”
“Geoffrey Young,” the man says, sticking his hand out. His eyes are the same startling color as Lena’s were. “Lena’s father.”
“Noelle Bond.” I shake his hand. “Private investigator, unofficially finding the schmuck who did this.”
His lips twitch. Just barely. “Well, Ms. Bond, thank you for your efforts. I assume, given the latest news, that Ryan fired you?”
“Of course. But my daddy didn’t raise me to be a quitter, sir.”
“Then come along to the wake. It’s just a couple of blocks down, at the Dorchester, in the bar. Miss Marcie put on a real nice spread, and we’re payin’ the first round as a thank-you for seein’ our baby on her way to Heaven. I can’t have you workin’ without payment.”
“Oh, please, sir—that isn’t necessary.”
“I insist. Come on down.” He softly pats my arm and squeezes his wife, looking at her lovingly. “We wouldn’t dream of lettin’ you do this for free.”
Mrs. Young nods, her eyes rimmed in red, a handkerchief to her nose.
Aw, damn.
I leave the Dorchester with a check in my purse for half the cost of my usual services. Actually, less than half of it. And that was after they pushed me up from my initial offer of zero dollars.
Turns out Mr. and Mrs. Young have a butt-load of money, and they aren’t afraid to throw that at someone who could find the person who killed their daughter.
I admire their resolve. I do. I just detest the fact that the check was literally tucked into my purse before Mr. Young zipped it up and disappeared into the throng of people with his wife. And believe me, I looked for them. For an hour. While I happily sipped on my free wine and then proceeded to drink two glasses of not-so-free wine.
Some private detective I am. Can’t even find my dang clients in a crowd.
In all honestly, if I hadn’t had a call from Grecia saying that the office had been broken into some time this morning, I would have stayed for a fourth glass.
A glass I could use given the fact that it’s the fucking afternoon and they just notified me.
“You,” I say, pointing at my little Mexican. “Coffee. My hand. Now.” I make a grabby motion at her.
“Two cups,” Bekah mutters, and I wonder if maybe she had a little too much wine to have technically driven across town. She’s a cheap date.
“Two cups!” I yell after Grecia. “Marshall!”
“Boss.” He appears out of nowhere, a head above me, skinny yet muscular. He adjusts his glasses. “Three files are missing. Totally wiped from the server. And the flash drives Grecia keeps are gone.”
“And why the fuck did no one call me before now?”
“You were at the funeral—”
“Which ended two damn hours ago!” I shake my arm, dislodging Bekah’s grip on me. Mike and Dean come into my peripheral, and I glare at them. “Please tell me y’all called the cops.”
Silence rings out.
I take a deep breath and pull my cell out. “I need you.”
“Now there are some words I wasn’t expectin’ you to say,” Drake laughs, his tone husky.
“Cut it, Romeo,” I snap. “My office was broken into.”
“On my way.”
I throw my phone back into my purse and focus on Marshall. “Files?”
“Melissa Hooper, Killan Jefferies, and Rita Owens,” he responds, ticking each one off on his fingers.
“I want financials, medical records, education—the full fucking shebang, Marshall. Now.”
“Yes, boss.”
“Meanwhile,” I say slowly but angrily, staring at each of my employees, taking my coffee from Grecia, “Y’all better come up with a damn good excuse for Detective Nash as to why you didn’t call him.” I turn to Bek. “Deal with him when he gets here. I ain’t in the mood for his shit.”
“And when he starts demanding files?”
“He won’t,” I reply confidently, knowing he already has them on the flash sticks I gave him this morning. “Now, I’m gonna go drink this and take a nap on my chaise.”
I stomp up the stairs and unlock my door with a little too much enthusiasm. I close it with just as much. Too much. Way, way too much, if you consider that the bang from the slam ricochets throughout the building and makes my door jump back open.
One final shove from my heel closes it. I throw my purse on top of my desk and gently set the mug down. Then I flatten my hands on the smooth wooden surface. Taking a deep breath as I lean over, I close my eyes and try to calm the buzz of anger threading through me right now.
My office and my house broken into on the same day, within hours of each other.
And no one fucking told me about the former.
I sigh and beat down the sugar craving taking the place of my anger. Damn, I could use a cupcake or two right about now. Even some candy. Like some Twizzlers or something. Ooh, no—those peanut butter egg things Reese’s do.
Thank God it’s Easter next weekend and they’re still selling them.
I pull my heels off and haphazardly leave them lying next to each other on the floor. Then I clear the papers from my chaise and fluff up the throw pillow before lying down and closing my eyes.
Sleep doesn’t come to me.
My mind works overtime, spinning back and forth and whirring until my thoughts are nothing but white noise ricocheting off each new thought that dares to enter the whirlwind. Nothing makes sense. A murder in a small town where everyone knows everyone else’s business—it should be simple.
Someone has to have seen something. Someone has to have some kind of idea about what happened the night Lena died and Daniel went missing. And that’s what’s truly bugging me—if Daniel had been attacked before he went missing, then surely someone saw something. Sure, at the time he would have been delivering Lena’s salad, it would have been dark, but hell, our shops stay open late. Especially in the summer and during vacations.
Like Spring Break, which is in full swing.
Clearly, thinking myself into insanity isn’t solving this case. But neither is anything else. And now, I have three missing files, and any of them could be the next victim.
In theory, at least. My gut isn’t agreeing. I can’t help but think…
“Knock, knock.”
I open my eyes and turn my head toward the door. It’s wide open, and Drake is filling the empty space. Should have locked that.
“What?”
“Sleepin’ on the job?”
“Supposed to be,” I mutter grumpily, swinging my legs around and sitting up. “Did you make my staff squirm?”
“The correct answer is, I believe, no.” He smiles.
“Not in this case. I’m pissed with them for not calling me or you.” I stand up. “Did you get the security tapes?”
“Disabled,” he replies, sitting down on one of my tub chairs and putting a small box on the desk.
My eyes focus on the white bow on top. “Is that—”
“A cupcake? Yes. Brody stopped by and got it on his way over here.”
“God love him.” I snatch up the box and open it, perching on the edge of my desk. I rest my bare feet on the empty chair and pull the cupcake out. The bright-pink frosting teases me from its home on top of the soft, cakey goodness, and I swipe my finger through the frosting and insert it into my mouth. I sigh happily as I lick it off my finger and repeat.
Sugar.
It feels good. Tastes, I mean. And feels. Oh, hell, who am I kidding? Cupcakes are like sex for stress. Just a lot cleaner and slightly less pleasurable.
Drake clears his throat, and with my finger still in my mouth, I cut my eyes to him. “Can you stop doing that?”
“Doing what?” I say around my finger.
“That,” he replies, his voice much deeper than it was a second ago.
The lusty look in his eyes sends a bolt of heat through me. “Oh,” I squeak, dropping my hand. “Sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t be eating while we talk. That was rude of me.”
He runs his tongue across his top lip, staring at me intently. “It’s not the damn eating that’s bothering me.”
“No?” I scoop some more frosting up on my finger, widening my eyes innocently. “Then what is?”