Tied Bond (Holly Woods Files, #4) (26 page)

The shot makes my ears ring, but the open air takes up most of it. I’m careless and stupid, but I’ve shot this gun enough times without earplugs that it doesn’t make a difference to me right now. It’s not enclosed—it’s open—and I guess I need the noise from my shots to kill the noise from the words my brother just spouted so carelessly.

“Give up on my career like you did?”

Right—because giving up on the police force was what I did. He and I and everyone else knows that it wasn’t giving up. It was an acceptance that being a police officer wasn’t the thing for me. I couldn’t deal with the responsibility of others’ lives, and I’m okay with that. I’m not afraid of that. It doesn’t make me weak; it simply makes me normal.

I fire off another round and hit the target right in the head.

Take that, motherfucker.

God, shooting paper people in the head feels good.

“Noelle?”

I pull the trigger once more, hitting the target just millimeters from the last shot. “What?”

Drake sidles into my line of view. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“I’m shooting the fuck out of paper people. Do I look okay?”

“Should you be shooting after you’ve been drinking?”

I sigh and lower the gun. “I had one glass. That’s all. Amelia drank my first.”

“I’d ask, but... No, I don’t care why she did.”

I barely crack a smile.

“Talk to me.” He comes closer. “
Bella
,” he whispers, resting his hand at the side of my face. “You’re crying.”

I shut my eyes as a tear spills over the edge, and he pries my gun from my hand.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.” Drake frames my face and forces me to look at him. “That was crazy in there. What happened, Noelle?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Me and Trent... This week... We’ve been fighting all week. What you saw pretty much just sums it up. I don’t care that we’re fighting, we do that all the time, but he just hurt me really bad with what he said. I thought I was finally okay with my choice to leave the force, especially after I told you what happened in Dallas, but he just made me feel like shit.”

“If it matters, Brody just pretty much ripped him a new asshole, and Dev gave him a colon transplant.” Drake’s lips twitch. “And I was dragged out by your dad. No matter what y’all are fightin’ about, what he said about you givin’ up wasn’t okay. We all know you didn’t give up. You made a choice that was best for you.”

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” I whisper.

“He didn’t mean it. He was angry and it came out. But you sure as hell have a lot of explaining to do about the life insurance thing.” He wipes his thumbs under my eyes.

I take a deep breath. “Didn’t he? Because, when you’re angry, it’s like being drunk. You lose the filter that connects your brain to your mouth and your emotions to all of that. He basically said what he’s been thinking for the last few years.”

“Really? Shit, what are you like when you’re really angry or really drunk? ‘Cause you don’t have a filter on your good days.”

“I know you’re trying to make me laugh, but it isn’t working.” I touch his hands with mine and pull them from my face, looking at the ground. The toes of our shoes are almost touching. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed today. That’s all. Then he started being a prick and I guess I took it all out on him. I just want to fix everything and find out the truth for everything, but if I can’t, then your mom will be arrested for something I know in my gut she didn’t do and everything will just be messed up.”He pulls me into his arms before my final word has left my lips, and he hugs me so tight that I have to choose between breathing or crying. My eyes don’t get the memo, though, because as I inhale deeply, the tears still fight their way out until they’re trailing down my cheeks. I’m limp in Drake’s embrace, my hands barely even touching him as the sting from Trent’s words continues to resonate throughout my body.

“Come on. Let’s go home,” Drake whispers in my ear, kissing my temple. “We’ll just order takeout and chill out. We’ll even watch some dumb girl movie I’ll hate every second of.”

Now, my lips twitch, and I sniff. “Okay, but only if you promise to grope me in the good parts so I can hit you and tell you to fuck off because it’s a good part.”

He cups my chin with his hand, his lips curved into a smile that makes me feel more comfortable than I have in days, and nods once. “Of course. It wouldn’t be a dumb girl movie if I didn’t try to fuck my way out of it.”

I curl into his side, and he wipes away the rest of my tears until my cheeks are dry. Then he walks us around the side of the house.

“I’ll get your purse,” he says, depositing me into the truck with a soft kiss. “Your gun is in my holster.”

“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get cocky. It’s for everyone else’s protection. It’s dangerous.”

“Now you’re admitting it?”

He pauses before shutting the truck door on me then winks. “Nope. I’m sayin’ the weapon’s dangerous and you’re crazy, baby.”

“It’s a side effect of being a Bond. And dating you.”

“Cute.” He leans forward, kisses me once more. “I’ll be two seconds. If I don’t come out in one minute, I’m beating your brother into Jell-O.”

He slams the truck door and stalks toward the house. I frown, considering that.

He was joking...

I’m pretty sure.

Who knows?

He was joking. It took him a minute to convince me that he really hadn’t beaten Trent into Jell-O and that Dev and Brody had taken control of the situation while Sil shouted, “Bullshit!” over and over again.

Oopsie. I guess I’m gonna have to send an apology or two to Alison for that. Or ten.

Either way, it’s now three a.m. and my usual mid-investigation middle-of-the-night thinking session. Except, this time, I’m at Drake’s table instead of my own, and I have water instead of coffee. I don’t want to wake him up by running the coffee machine, and he doesn’t have instant, so water it is.

I don’t know why my mind works best in the middle of the night. It’s either because I know there can be no interruptions or the world is quiet. That or I need some form of psychiatric help, because clearly, I’m evolving into some nocturnal human who will probably resemble a possum at some point in my life. Or an owl. Though I suppose evolving into an owl would have its benefits. Mostly that I’d be able to see perfectly in the dark and swivel my head all the way around on my neck.

This is the first case I’ve been truly stuck on for a long time. With Lena and Daniel, there were so many webs of lies and untruths twisted together that it was consuming. There was always something to occupy my mind. When Natalie was murdered, it was a similar situation—darkness and lies and secrets, one after the other. And, in June, at the fair, with the serial killings, there were too many bodies too quickly to ever stop thinking.

This, though... This is a stop-start. Still lies, still secrets, still things being hidden from the people who need to see them. The difference with this case is that it should be cut-and-dry. By rights, Gianna should be the one responsible for Wally’s death.

If it were anyone else, would I be fighting this hard to prove their innocence?

No.

That’s the simple answer. No. I wouldn’t. I’d tell them I’m sorry, I can’t do it, because it’s not my job. It’s the police’s and I trust them to come to the right conclusion and charge the right person.

Is it only because it’s Gianna that I’m fighting this relentlessly, even at the cost of my relationship with my eldest brother?

Yes. Because, in my heart, I know that, when all is said and done, the truth will out, and we’ll apologize while one gloats “I told you so” and the other shovels humble pie down their throat. That’s just how it goes.

And, really, if Mom and Nonna can
cook
together with all of their fights, Trent and I will get our shit figured out eventually.

I just hope that, last night, my telling him about the life insurance policy will give him something to think about. The shock that flashed in his eyes when I mentioned it was all I needed to prove I was right. They haven’t looked outside of Gianna, and with the evidence against her continuing to stack up, they don’t need to.

But hey... A life insurance policy that big on one person who isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, rolling in money is abnormal.

There isn’t even any proof Wally knew about it. For all we know, Kat took the policy out and Wally signed it blindly. I don’t really have any idea about their relationship as father and daughter. Kat appears to know a different side to her dad than anyone else has mentioned, but then it was only about his ruthlessness as a businessman. Although enough people I know have had sides to them I never imagined existed, so what if Wally is one of them?

What if, to the rest of the world, he was a sweet, loving father, a hard-working businessman, and a devoted husband?

I already know the devoted husband is bullshit. You don’t get married and divorced twice—cheating on at least one of your wives—and be devoted, let’s be real.

So what if his relationship with Kat wasn’t all that great? She’s benefiting greatly from his death. A house, a business, a seriously large amount of money... It would stand to reason that the “ruthless, undercutting” businessman she portrayed to me didn’t necessarily stay in the world of business.

What if he wasn’t such a sweet father?

I put the water down and move to the coffee machine. It isn’t really that loud, and if I wake Drake, he’ll just come down with his gun out and then leave me to it. I hope, anyway. Just as long as he doesn’t shoot.

I quickly make my coffee. The machine buzzes what seems like loudly, but isn’t. It’s only because the kitchen is deathly quiet. The light raindrops pitter-pattering against the windows are louder than the machine giving me my caffeine.

I sit back at the table with my steaming-hot mug and wrap my hands around it. My eyes travel around the kitchen until they land on the window, and I watch the rain as it falls. I can only see the water droplets as they hit the glass pane, when they’re illuminated by some magical light that has no source.

Then, like tiny little tears, they trail down the glass, leaving clear streaks as their only marker of existence, before disappearing into nowhere.

Like this investigation. It feels like a window, and all the facts are the raindrops falling upon it. Some are quick to fall, some are slow, and some don’t even move at all. It’s getting to the point where I just want to grab a cloth, wipe it clean to start all over again, and see what sticks the second time around.

“You know, sometimes, I look at you and think I’m crazy. Then other times, like this, I look at you and know I’m crazy. But I also know that I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in this town, because I get to wake up at four a.m. to find you sitting in my kitchen with your hair a mess and your makeup smudged, still looking totally fucking beautiful.”

I smile and look at Drake out of the corner of my eye. “You’re still in a sleepy haze. It’s too early for your brain to work properly.”

“Probably,” he agrees, his lips twitching up. “That’s why I said it. Because you’ll probably never hear it again.”

“Be still my beatin’ heart. The romance. I can’t take it.”

He laughs and, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, gently kisses the top of my head. It’s a lingering touch, and I close my eyes as warmth floods through my body from the small yet meaningful action.

“Did I wake you?” I ask as he turns the light on and dims it.

“No. I felt you get up, and when you didn’t come back, I figured you were overthinking again, so I left you for a while. Then, when three turned to four and you weren’t back, I was afraid you’d been swallowed by the demon at the end of my yard.” He grabs a mug and puts it under the coffee machine. “You were watching the rain for a good few minutes before I said anything.”

“I think I’ve been watching it awhile without realizing.”

My coffee isn’t as hot as it was, although it feels like I only made it a few minutes ago, and I still think it’s three in the morning, not four, but what do I know? Nothing, clearly.

“I can see how it’d be entertaining,” he says.

“Not so much entertaining as numbing.” I push my mug away and look at him. “It’s like watching paint dry, except you can see it happening. There’s something about the rain and the darkness that makes it easy to clear your mind and let your subconscious work the way you need it to.”

“All right, Doctor. Do I have to pay you in full for this hour, or are we counting it as a consultation?” Drake turns with a smirk playing on his lips.

“You can pay me in, ‘shut the fuck up, you cocky bastard.’”

“I’m not aware of that currency. I’m sorry.” He sits down opposite me. “What are you thinking about?”

“Wally. What kind of a man he really was. Kat told me he had a ruthless side to him, but I never saw anything like that, and everyone else only gives good accounts of him.”

“Probably because the majority of people who knew him well are too old and dignified to speak ill of the dead.” He drinks his coffee. “That’s a problem with a tight-knit community like this, I suppose.”