Twirled Bond (Holly Woods Files, #5) (17 page)

Jessica gives me a derogatory look more fitting of a PMS-ing high school princess than a thirty-year-old woman. “Real funny.”

I guess it depends which side you’re standing on. Clearly, she shit out her sense of humor this morning.

Oh. Wait. I wasn’t joking.

Ba-dum-tsh.

“Ladies, please.” Drake rubs his hand over his face and straightens. “Jessica, what are you doing here?”

“I haven’t received an invitation for the press conference.”

“And, last time I checked, I wasn’t the media liaison for Holly Woods. The person who can help you is the one you no doubt rudely ignored as you walked in on your way to me. Hint: her name is Charlotte and she’s the receptionist. I suggest you find your way there before I ensure your invitation is permanently
lost.
”

He says it in his I’m-warning-you voice. It’s kind of a scary voice, actually, but it always works, because Jessica sends me one last dirty look before she turns on the balls of her feet and disappears back through the door.

“And you,” he says, turning to me, the hard edge gone. “You have got to stop threatening to shoot her to her face.”

I wrinkle my face up. “You’re already making me do my own numbers. Now, you’re taking away my last bit of fun?”

He shakes his head, then touches my shoulders and kisses me. “Go back to work, sweetheart. I need to take these letters up to Sheriff Bates. We might be able to get enough of a print from this Lucas that we can identify him if he’s in the system.”

“Fine. I’ll be waiting for my cupcakes.”

“Of course you will be.”

I
tap my pen against my laptop as I scroll through my e-mails. There’s nothing overly important in there except a couple of requests for consultations, so I schedule one with me for next week and forward the other onto Dean. A fiancé with a penchant for strippers is way more his style than mine, it has to be said.

With everything I needed to send all sent off to the accountant and e-mails out of the way, I blow out a long breath and look out the window. The silence is nice, even if I can hear murmurs of conversation from Mike’s office and Grecia’s phone ringing downstairs.

Before I left the station, Drake suggested that I call Mrs. Russo and tell her about the letters and what I found this morning. He thinks its coming from me will be better than its coming from the police, but I’m super unsure. I don’t see how my telling her that her daughter was sexually abused, probably for a while, is going to be better coming from one person than another.

There’s also the risk that she’ll tell her family. Of course she’ll tell her family—but that brings us to a huge problem.

Statistically, someone is more likely to be raped by somebody they know than a complete stranger. A family member or a close friend. Especially in an instance like this with Daniela. The way she wrote her letter certainly lends credence to the theory that she was being abused for a long time, so the reasonable idea is that the person doing it was definitely somebody she knew and had regular, private access to her.

And I know that Drake thinks I’m crazy for jumping to conclusions, but I think she was killed because she was going to tell.

If whoever was hurting her could ruin her life so badly, I imagine they wouldn’t have much guilt about taking her life from her.

Of course, it doesn’t answer the “who” question. In my experience, the only thing that does answer that question once and for all is getting myself into a sticky situation with the killer, but I’m not going to do that this time.

Nuh-uh. No way. Nada.

Not this time.

Plus, if it happens again, it might just kill Drake, and I’m kinda used to having his hot ass around these days.

My office door slams, the sharp bang echoing through the room, and I jump in my chair, squealing. Thankfully, it’s only Bek.

Well, I say thankfully, but she looks like lasers are gonna shoot outta her eyes any moment. I’m kinda scared of her—she’s angry.

“Hi. Come in,” I say. “What’s up?”

“I just broke up with Jason,” she declares, throwing herself onto the sofa on the other side of the office. “I’m done. I’m handing you my resignation and joining a nunnery.”

I roll my eyes and focus on my laptop as a new e-mail comes in.
Ooh, Coach sale!
“You know you can’t take your vibrator into the nunnery, right?”

Her anguished scream into a throw pillow tells me she didn’t. “I’m so done, Noelle. I’m so tired of this dating crap. I’ll be thirty in six months. Why can’t I get my life together?”

I’m asking the same question about my brother. And Jason. And myself, honestly. At least I have the relationship part figured out.

“Look, it’s not that bad.”

“I swear to fucking god that, if you spin me the ‘you’ll find the right guy’ line, I will come over there and beat you to death with a stapler.”

“And that’s me shutting up,” I mutter, scrolling through the myriad of discount purses online. I shouldn’t buy a new purse. I really don’t need one, but this red one is cute and ninety bucks off... Oh, look. It accidentally jumped into my shopping cart. “Well, I think you’ve done the right thing.”

“You do?” She sits up, hugging one of my cushions to her chest. “Really?”

“We’ve been friends our entire lives, I have no brain-to-mouth filter, and you’re questioning whether or not I’d tell you you’re damn stupid if I thought so?” I raise an eyebrow. “Seriously, Bek, I think breaking up with Jason is right. You’re obviously not as emotionally invested in the relationship as he is, so it’s probably best to break it off now before it goes too far and he breaks up with you and then you realize you love him or some shit.”

“I’m not in love with him. I don’t know what I am. Why am I such a whiny bitch?”

“Because relationships are heartless bitches? And you just happen to be emotionally wedged between two hot guys?”

“You think your own brother is hot?”

“He has my DNA. Look at me. I’m smoking. Of course he has to be hot.”

Now, it’s her turn to roll her eyes. “I don’t want to think about your brother. I saw him in Rosie’s this morning and he completely ignored me. I wanted to accidentally throw my coffee on his head.”

“I’m really not supposed to be involved in this triangle drama. I promised Drake I wouldn’t stick my nose into it.”

“There’s no triangle. There’s no drama. I ended the triangle and the drama, and now, I’m done. My life won’t be a soap opera.” She huffs. “I might join online dating.”

Her answer to her dating drama was to do more dating? Online? With those crazy people?

“Perhaps you should give it a little time,” I say hesitantly. “Like, you know. A month at least. Let it settle down. You might work things out with Jason.”

“There’s nothing to work out.” She slams the cushion on the sofa next to her and gets up. “By the way, tomorrow night, there’s a memorial service for Daniela at the church. Apparently, they’re refusing to release her body although the Russos are certain it’s her, so they’re holding a short service. I ran into her sister at Melanie’s store when I picked up my book.”

“Her sister’s back in town?” I perk up, finally giving her my full attention. Okay—so I just clicked “purchase” on the purse, but whatever. “Since when?”

“Her sister and brothers all flew in when the body was found. I think they’re all staying at hotels though.”

“Her sister is a year older than we are right?”

Bek frowns. “Yeah. Why?”

I briefly explain what I found in the letters. “I really need to talk to her and her mom. See if they know anything about Lucas or what was happening to her.”

“She said she’d be at the house all day while her brothers took their dad to play golf and take his mind off everything. Want some company?”

I pull up outside the Russo house for the second time in as many days. This time, it’s silent, the only sign of life a shadow moving in front of blinds in the front room and a bright-red Ford Focus parked in front of me on the drive. I texted Drake before I left and told him what we were doing, but he hasn’t replied, so naturally, his silence is a yes.

He’s the one who told me to do this, after all. Even if I don’t want to. This has to be one of the worst conversations I’m ever going to have.

How do you tell a woman her child was abused right under her nose?

“How are you supposed to tell her this?” Bek leans over the center console toward me.

I shrug. “Somehow. I was considering just spitting it out.” I get out of the car before I can think about it anymore and head for the door. I knock twice before it’s opened by someone who looks exactly how I imagine Daniela would if she were alive today.

Olive skin. Hazel eyes. Long, dark hair. High cheekbones and bee-stung lips.

Her sister, Stacia.

“Hi! I know you, right? Wait—Noelle Bond!” She smiles widely and pulls me into a warm hug. “It’s so nice to see you!”

“Yeah, you too.” I awkwardly hug her back, but thankfully, it doesn’t take long because she soon spots Bek right behind me.

Bek gets the same excited greeting I did before Stacia pulls back.

“Can I help y’all?”

“Is your mom around?” I ask. “I have to speak to her.”

“About...” She pauses. “Of course. She’s in the sunroom. Come on back.” She waves us over her shoulder and into the house. “Have you...found anything yet?”

“Yes,” I say slowly. “But you may not want to hear it.”

“Honestly,” she replies, smiling sadly over her shoulder at me, “I’m not sure there’s anything about this I want to hear unless it’s that it’s not my sister. Although it would be kinder to us all if it is. We’ll finally have closure.”

“I understand.”

“Mom?” Stacia says softly. “Noelle and Bek are here to see you.”

Mrs. Russo turns her face toward us, a sad smile etched onto her lips. Her eyes are tired, the shadowy, purple circles beneath them belying her exhaustion more than her expression, and it looks as though she has more lines around her mouth than before.

“Hi, girls. Come take a seat.” She gestures toward the rattan sofa opposite her.

Surprisingly, the cushions are thick and comfortable when I sit down.

“Can I get you a drink?” Stacia offers, clasping her hands in front of her stomach.

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” I smile.

“Same here. Thank you,” Bek answers.

“I’d love another coffee, Cia.” Mrs. Russo holds her mug toward her daughter, who takes it with a warm smile and disappears back into the main house. Mrs. Russo sighs heavily and straightens in the sofa. “What can I do for you, girls?”

I shift uncomfortably and meet her sad eyes. “Did Daniel tell you I stopped by yesterday?”

She nods. “He did. He said you found a couple of things you thought might help.”

Oh boy. I feel sick. “Well...I did, ma’am. But, first, I have a question. Did you know that Daniela had a pen pal?”

“A pen pal?” A frown mars her already wrinkled forehead. “No, hon. She didn’t.”

“Actually...” Stacia hesitantly joins the conversation. She leans against the sunroom door, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. “Mom, she did. All I know is that his name is Lucas and he lived in Omaha when they wrote. She was notoriously private about him, and I only found out because she left a letter out one day and I read it. It was completely innocent, but she loved writing to him.”

Mrs. Russo swallows, but she slowly nods. “I always wondered why she was sometimes so insistent on getting the mail.”

“Those were the days he wrote back.” Stacia smiles. “I think she had a crush on him. She never met him, but his letters made her stupidly happy.”

My heart pangs at the affection in her voice. She truly loved—loves—her sister.

“Why didn’t you tell the police? Maybe he could have helped.”

“I did. They never found their letters.”

Both of their gazes swing toward me.

“Wait.” Stacia’s voice is quiet. “Did you find them?”

I slowly nod, looking between them. “By chance. She had them hidden in a box beneath her bed. I didn’t mention them to your dad because I had a feeling telling him before I could see what they were would do more harm than good.”

“Beneath her bed?” Mrs. Russo’s eyes are riddled with confused shimmers. “I don’t understand.”