Twirled Bond (Holly Woods Files, #5) (12 page)

He was right.

Mrs. Russo declined to accept her check back and, much to my annoyance, thrust a second one of the same amount into my hand, demanding that I “find the motherfucker who killed Daniela.”

Honestly, after that, I was a little afraid to argue. I think I took the check, nodded, smiled, and promised I’d do my best.

The police might not know anything, but Mrs. Russo is one hundred percent sure someone murdered her daughter. I’m a little inclined to go with her assumption—mother’s instinct and all that. Every time my mom has pulled that card, she’s been right.

So has Nonna. Not that anyone in their right mind would tell that crazy bat that she was right. We’d never hear the end of it.

Except when it comes to cooking. Her being right about cooking is why I’m sitting cross-legged on my desk chair in my home office, gorging on her cheesy, baked garlic bread and homemade bacon-and-tomato ravioli. Food—it’s Nonna’s answer for everything. Especially when that food is cheese, pasta, or both.

She heard on the bingo-vine that Mrs. Russo hired me, and after a lecture about avoiding murderers, she presented me with this food she cooked.

You know, sometimes, I think we’re even friends. Until she mutters that the rug and the blinds in the downstairs bathroom don’t match perfectly. Then I glare her out of the building.

She’ll bring me a new set tomorrow. I’m no fool. They’ll be on the doorstep when I get home, and I’ll probably only have to nag Drake for three months to do the blinds.

Now, I’m looking over everything I know about Daniela Russo. It’s much harder to comb through someone’s life when their life was lived before the rise of the Internet and social media. Usually, all I have to do for information is hop online, but with Daniela, I can’t. There are very few traces of her except old newspaper articles that have been scanned onto various databases.

I don’t want to, but I’m probably going to have to comb through her personal belongings if I want to get anything even semi-private.

The good news is that printing off and reading through all of these old articles
is
providing me with information I didn’t know. I didn’t know that Daniela had a boyfriend three years her senior or that, at the time of her disappearance, her parents were on the verge of a divorce, and I didn’t know that her eldest brother left for college early one week after she went missing.

I scribble these three points down in a notepad. The cogs in my brain start to whir, but there’s nothing for them to catch against. All of these points could mean nothing. It could all be coincidence. Stuff like this usually is. That doesn’t mean they’re not worth investigating.

Everything is worth investigating, even if the point in question is whether or not her dog liked her boyfriend.

Dogs are good judges of character.

It’s why I don’t mind being called a bitch so much. I can size most people up in seconds.

Except Jason when I thought he was Alex because he was undercover. I’m still mad at him for that one.

My doorbell rings, and I grab a slice of garlic bread before I walk down the hall.

“‘Oo is it?” I yell through a mouthful of cheesy, bready goodness.

“Jason.”

Whoa. Freaky.
“‘Ng on.”
Classy, Noelle. Real classy.
Can’t even swallow my food before I speak.

At least I’m wearing a bra. Can’t win ‘em all.

I open the front door. He’s wearing sweats and a black T-shirt, but his car is in my drive, so I know he didn’t run here.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Got a minute?” he asks.

“Sure. I’m in my office. Come in.” I let him through and walk back into my office.

“Drake here?”

“Nope.” I point to the plush armchair in the corner next to case of guilty-pleasure, sexy books.

Drake teased me the first time he realized what they were, but he soon stopped when I forced him to read a hot chapter and he realized they’re beneficial for him too.

“Does he need to be?” I ask.

“Not really.” Jason sits on the chair, filling it with his large frame.

And hey! He’s holding a bag. I didn’t notice that before. For an investigator, my skills of observation could use some work.

“I have something for you.”

I stare at the black rucksack. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

He chuckles deeply and unzips the bag. “Some case notes on Daniela Russo’s disappearance. You know the family pressured HWPD and us into reopening the case and now appear to have tempted fate. I spoke to Trent this afternoon, and he said the mom hired you to do it and Bates has you working with the HWPD.”

I shrug. “There’s not much point working separately. Besides, I find out a lot of information simply because I’m not a cop. People trust me more.”

“And you obtain a lot of said information by illegal means.”

“Hey. You didn’t complain when it solved your case.”

He holds a hand up. “Not complaining, darlin’. Here.” He hands me several sheets of paper stapled together. “Keep this between us and Drake. If anyone found out I’ve given you anything at all, my ass is on the fucking line.”

I mime zipping my lips. “Is this really info from the original investigation? I’ve been scouring old missing persons archives all day. You wouldn’t believe the amount of shit that’s on the Internet. It’s literally its own universe.”

“I can imagine.” His twinkling eyes tell me that he thinks I’m cute.

I just about resist the urge to beat his ass with my lamp.

“There’s a lot of gossip in the media articles,” he says. “Comparing actual notes with it should probably weed it out.”

I grab another piece of garlic bread and scan down the first page. “Did you know that her parents almost got divorced around the time she disappeared?”

Jason frowns, his brown-blond eyebrows drawing together. “I just read the notes again this morning. They said they were having problems but nothing serious.”

“Well, numerous papers”—I point to the ones scattered across my desk—“quote sources ‘close to the family’ as saying they were even separated and about to divorce.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he mutters.

He’s not wrong. If those sources are correct, why wouldn’t they have just been honest? Parents’ breaking up isn’t exactly an out-there reason for teens to run away. It’s a scary prospect. I know I’d be terrified and want to run away if my parents broke up and I’ll be thirty this year, for the love of god.

“It’s probably one of those things where the severity of the situation eclipsed any of the problems they were having,” I reason, flicking through another couple of pages. “They probably realized they needed to be there for their kids more than they needed to break up.”

The realization obviously worked—fifteen years later, they’re still together, even though their kids are old, grown, and, for the most part, moved out.

“You’re probably right. I gotta go—I just wanted to bring these over to see if your magical brain could do anything with them.”

My lips form a wide smile. “Magical brain. I like that.”

“Here we go.” He rolls his eyes as he gets up. “I’m swinging by the station on the way home. Want me to pass a message on to Drake?”

“Yes. Please. Tell him to let me know if he’s coming home soon or if I can heat the rest of the ravioli Nonna brought over.”

“Nonna brought you ravioli?” He perks up.

“Yes. He’s lucky I’m so thoughtful and saved him some. You can think again, sucker. You aren’t touching my carbs.”

“Talk to her father.”

Mrs. Russo’s suggestion from our first meeting is the thought I wake to. In her voice too. Almost like a subconscious shove in the direction I need to go—or, at the very least, the place I need to be.

The Russo household.

Like most people in Holly Woods, they’ve lived in the same house for probably at least thirty years. All Daniela’s belongings are going to be somewhere in that house, and I hope like hell I’ll be able to look through them. You never know what you’ll find. A fact that’s both terrifying and exciting.

Honestly, at this point, I just want to find something. Anything. I don’t care what as long as it can help a little. Even lend to something that may help. Ideas, hints, hints of a hint. Literally anything.

Talking to her father though. That seems...oh, I don’t know. Rude? Inappropriate? Accusatory?

Unfortunately, that was all she gave me. Talk to her father.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe it’s as simple as Daniela and Mr. Russo’s having had a close bond, maybe closer than she had with her mom, so she may have told him things her mom didn’t know. Maybe things he was supposed to take to the grave.

God, though. How many issues can a fifteen-year-old have? All I wanted was my grandmother to stop sniffing out potential future dates and setting me up with her friends’ sons.

Yeah. Nonna started me early.

It’s no wonder I’m a rebel in her eyes.

“You’re thinking very loudly.” Drake rolls over when I come back into the bedroom from the bathroom. His blue eyes are bright, like he’s been awake for a while, and he sits up when I drop onto the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

I huff out a long breath and look at him. I wish I had a real answer to that. My head is pounding, sharp bolts of pain beating against my forehead with the stress of this entire situation. The fact that I have such a bad headache so soon into it doesn’t bode well for my sanity.

“Noelle?”

I open my mouth and close it again. The only answer I can give right now is a shrug of my shoulder, and I know why.

The immediate urgency aside, it’s hit me that we’ve found Daniela’s body. A girl I used to be really good friends with. A girl I went to the movies with, giggled about boys in math class with, and even attempted to get on the cheer squad with our freshman year.

Drake doesn’t say a single word as he shuffles over the bed and pulls me back against his body. His strong arms wrap around me, cocooning me against him. Emotion runs rife through my veins, and I squeeze my eyes shut to make sure it stays there. Inside. Locked up.

He softly kisses the top of my head, and every time he brushes his thumb back and forth across my lower back, the sadness inside me dulls a little bit.

I don’t know how he does it, but I think he’s a little bit magic.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into my hair, squeezing me. “You were good friends. It’s okay to feel sad,
bella.
”

“Is it?” I ask, my voice just as soft as his was. “Because I don’t know. It’s been years since I even gave her a single thought, but now that we’ve found her, I can’t
stop
thinking about her.”

What would her life have been like had she not disappeared? Would she be successful? Single? Married? Would she be a mom? Would she still be in Holly Woods, or would she be living somewhere else?

Would she be happy if she were alive today?

I hope so.

I like to think she would be.

“Of course.” Drake tilts my face up with two fingers and shifts so he can meet my eyes. “She was a huge part of your life, no matter how long ago it was. She mattered to you. You don’t just stop caring about people who once mattered to you, even if it’s been years since you thought of them last.”

He’s right. I know he is. But it doesn’t make it much easier.

“I know. I just wish there was something I could do to make it better.”

His laugh is short but not cruel. Gentle, even. “There is, silly fool.” He taps the end of my nose, making me wrinkle it. “Figure out what happened to her. She didn’t put herself in that theater, sweetheart. Someone took her and put her there. Make it better by finding who did it.”

“You sound like you’re getting ready to start a social media campaign on Facebook. Justice for Daniela or another one of those equally skeptical pages. Maybe a bullshit GoFundMe.”

“And you’re back.” He laughs, this time properly, and kisses me. “Seriously though, Noelle. It’s the best we can do right now. Try to find out how she ended up in the theater. I think that, once we have that figured out, all the other issues will start to fall into place.” One more soft kiss and he releases me, getting up off the bed.

“You mean why she ended up there?”

He pauses in the doorway to the closet. “All right, smartass. Maybe we need to figure that out too.”

“Maybe? It’s optional?”

“Noelle Bond, don’t think I won’t come over there and start checking spanks off that tally chart I’m keeping.”

“Was that supposed to be scary? Because it was kinda hot.”

“You know you flip between emotions faster than lightning strikes? I’m starting to think you’re a little unstable.”

I purse my lips. “I’m a lot unstable, but in all the right ways. It’s part of the reason why you love me.”

He nods his head side to side in contemplation before wisely choosing not to respond. Or, if he does, I can’t hear it. Again: wise. He knows better than to argue with that.

“What do you think I should do?” I ask once we’re both dressed and on the way downstairs. “Where do I start?”

“Hold on,” he says, stopping in front of the coffee machine. He turns, his eyebrow rising. “Are you asking for my advice?”