Tied Bond (Holly Woods Files, #4) (29 page)

Drake stares at me. “I’m starting to reconsider.”

“Nope. You can’t take it back now. That’s it. You’ve said it and it’s up here,” I finish on a stage-whisper, digging my finger into my temple. “Like a termite.”

“The worst part of this is that you’re sober.”

“Oh, yeah. And you should see me after girls’ night. Alison makes lethal margaritas. They’re like...ten percent marga, twenty percent rita, and seventy percent ahh.”

“And on that note... We should go to bed.” He stands up and pulls me up.

I glance at the clock. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

“I didn’t say we were sleeping.”

“Netflix and chill? Because you know you do the legit ‘chill’ instead of the ‘chill’ the kids do,” I remind him as he tugs me toward the stairs.

“Noelle? Shut up, or your kind of ‘chill’ will be my tie stuffed in your mouth so you can’t make a sound.”

“That’s no threat.”

“I know. So keep talking.”

Is it possible to have a sex hangover?

Like, is that a thing? Because I think I have one.

My vagina won’t stop sighing. She’s going to request Advil pretty soon. Not to mention my clit—she’s wondering when pleasure got so good.

I’m wondering the exact same thing.

In all honesty, the sex was a nice distraction from our previous conversation. Living together is great until it’s defined. And I guess, really, that’s what we’re doing. I can’t remember a time we didn’t spend a night together. Girls’ night always finished early, and then he came over. But living together, officially, under one roof, splitting bills, and all of that stuff we didn’t even discuss?

Well, that’s scary to me.

I feel like I’ve already given up so much of my independence by simply being in a relationship. I did it willingly, because I, well… I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to. Because it was important to the success of our relationship.

Living together will require more. I won’t be able to empty the dishwasher when I want to, leave my dirty bra on the back of the sofa, or have a wet towel hanging over the side of the bath for three days before I remember that it needs to go in the laundry basket.

Little things he doesn’t know now because he’s not there all the time. How does he know that that dirty bra is dirty? For all he knows, I was sorting clean laundry and forgot to put it away. Because a person always stacks their bras on the back of the sofa, obviously.

I sit on the windowsill and look out at the park. Same old, same old. Nothing changes there. It’s always the same people doing the same things at the same times. They have a routine, and I know I’ll see the joggers at eleven, the dog-walking group at one, and the soccer wannabes at four thirty after school gets out.

Nothing ever changes...

The rain has long stopped, but the sun is in an ever-waging battle with the gray clouds for dominance. So far, the clouds are winning, keeping the brightness at bay. I’ll forever swear that the weather is keeping up with Holly Woods.

The Kardashians can eat their freakin’ hearts out. They’d fall behind in town this past week.

“Guess what?” Carlton leans against my office door.

I turn to face him, and my eyes drop to the papers in his hands. “You got the financial information?”

“Yes. And I think you’re going to love it.” He brings it over to me. “Someone’s been spinning tales to the employees at the showman. They’re not barely turning a profit. They’re not turning anything at all except the bank’s wheels.”

“What?” I snatch the sheets from him, and he’s kindly left the past tax year’s report on the top and highlighted the number. “No. That has to be wrong.”

He slowly shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Nope. Totally right.”

“Quarter of a million in debt?” I whisper. “That’s insanity. How did it get that far?”

“No idea. You’d have to ask Kat yourself.”

I thank him and take the sheets to my desk. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in debt. That’s an insane amount. It just adds water to my theory, makes it even more believable. Wally’s life insurance policy would more than cover everything and arrange to sell the business while giving Kat more than enough to live with for a long time.

I scratch across my jaw. How did this ever get past Wally? How did he never know that the business he’d made so successful was being run into the ground? It makes no sense.

God, this is one of those times I wish the victim could have survived just to answer these questions. The only way to find out is to probably take a trip to see Rosie. She’d know if Wally suspected anything to be wrong with the business... But if she had on-off relationships with him, then she might not know, and any mention of it to Kat might tip her off.

It’s too early for this. I have no idea what’s happening. Once again, the thought hits that it may be easier to just let Gianna take the rap, because she’s still the most likely killer, if I’m honest with myself. This motive I’ve decided Kat has is as coincidental as the evidence pinning Gi to it.

Shit.

I just want to go home to bed.

I have no idea how to solve this. I’m so lost. Ironically, I’m drowning in my lack of knowledge. It’s like all the oxygen is being sucked from the air around me and I can’t breathe thanks to the pressure of it.

It’s times like this that I really hate not talking with Trent. He could help me—I know he could—and that’s the worst part about it. Normally, I’d go to him and we’d make a deal and I’d get the stuff I need to know. Not that it matters with our differing avenues of investigation. He can’t give me anything that could help me right now. All he can do is give me incriminating evidence against Gianna.

I do hope that Alison was serious when she said that Trent was getting a warrant for a second search of Wally’s house for the life insurance policy.

Moreover, I hope he’s found it by now. At the very least, it’ll open up another road of questioning and give me time... I hope.

I’m hoping a real lot lately. Like a fucking twelve-year-old girl passing a note to her crush in math class. Hoping she won’t be caught, hoping he won’t be mean, hoping he crushes on her too...

Hope after hope after hope after hope...

Although, right now, I’m hoping for a fucking cupcake to appear out of thin air, despite being reminded several times that that’s not how it works. I just want to know why it isn’t how it works.

I want to know a lot of things today. And most important is why I’m so tired.

So, since I’m not getting the answers to the cupcakes or the murder, I’m going for a nap. That’s a question I can answer, after all, and a quick nap never hurt anyone. Maybe, once my mind is a little clearer, I’ll be able to decide what to do next.

F
ollow Kat.

That’s my decision.

I woke from my nap two hours ago feeling surprisingly reinvigorated. Like a superhero ready to take on the forces of evil in the world. Just…you know. As long as I don’t have to fly and shit. Or actually be responsible for dealing with the forces of evil.

The first thing I do is swing by the Oleander and check if Kat’s around. The young girl at the reception desk tells me that she checked out this morning, but she has no idea where she went. This doesn’t help me much, obviously, because I need to know where she is in order to follow her.

I’m not going to give up though. I need to feel as though I’m doing something even semi-productive with this case. Otherwise, I’m going to do nothing but think about things over and over again until I drive myself completely crazy.

That’s the last thing anyone wants. I’d like to keep what remains of my sanity, because my family is sure to shred it at some freakin’ point in the rest of my life.

Short of driving aimlessly around town to see if I can find her, I’m not actually sure what I can do. We won’t even discuss that I have no idea what car she drives or even what color it is. I’m totally screwed in every instance today, because here I am, bouncing around without thinking about what I’m doing.

Dammit. Good intentions gone to shit once more.

Story of my life with this case. Just when I think I’m truly turning into a female Sherlock Holmes, I realize I’m actually Mrs. Potato Head.

I pull up outside the inn, take my phone from my purse, then text Drake.
Do you know what car Kat drives?Think it’s a Chevrolet. Red? I remember her getting into a red car after the funeral. Why?
He sends back.

Thanks.

I lock my phone, then his next message flashes on screen.

Noelle, are you following her?

Something bangs against my car window. “Noella!”

I drop my phone onto the floor as legit fear hurtles through my body. “Jesus Christ, Nonna!” I gasp, hitting the button to put my window down. “I thought I was being shot!”

“Ah,
mi dispiace.
What-a are-a you doing?” She leans forward, practically shoving her head through the window.

I edge to the side. “Texting Drake. What are you doing here? Isn’t the inn too far away from your kitchen?

“It is-a bingo night!” She claps her hands excitedly. “What-a you doing here?”

“I just told you: texting Drake. And, hey... Doesn’t bingo start at seven? It’s only four.”

“Oh,
merda
.” She tuts at herself. “You-a caught me.”

“Caught you...what?”

She straightens up. Then, with her hands clasped over the bottom of my window, she darts her eyes side to side. “I-a heard,” she whispers, “Trent-a talking to-a Antonio.” She pauses.

“Carry on,” I prompt her. “I don’t have all day for your theatrics.”

“Pssh, shh!” she scolds me. “They-a have-a no-a weapon!”

Wait... “They didn’t find the weapon at the scene? There was a knife there.”

“It was-a not-a it!”

Okay. She’s saying this with way too much glee. So much, in fact, that I’m a little worried about her real reason for being here.

The last time she was this excited was when she found out I was dating Drake. Dear God. I hope she isn’t going to dance again. I’m scarred for life from that already.

“I’m-a looking,” she whispers again, “for-a the weapon!”

I unclip my belt and turn to her. Did she honestly just say that?

“Nonna, that’s insane. You know that, don’t you? You can’t just go and look for a murder weapon. You don’t even know it’ll be here.”

“Yes-a, I can!”

“Don’t you think they would have already combed this area? They’d have tried to look for it everywhere around here. You’re wasting your time.”

“I-a woman! I bet-a they-a had-a only men-a look!”

Well... She has a point. It is universally accepted that a man can’t find the glasses he’s wearing while a woman could find a needle in a haystack—and quicker.

“I understand your point, Nonna, but you can’t just go barging into a crime scene to look for a murder weapon.”

“Is-a no crime scene,” she responds defiantly, lifting her nose with an affected air despite the mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes.

So that’s where we all get it.

“No-a yellow tape.”

I wave for her to move to the side then study what I can see of the inn and its grounds. Shit, she’s right. There’s no tape, which means the whole area is now free for us to move around in.

“And what if you get caught? Why are you here?” I ask her now, determined to talk her out of this.

She holds her left hand up and waggles her finger. “I lost-a my-a wedding ring when-a I was here for-a the party.”

“And why have you left it over a week to come find it?”

“Because it-a was-a a crime scene.”

Shit. She’s got me, doesn’t she? That’s it. This crazy old bat has wrangled her way into searching for a murder weapon, because aside from “you can’t do that,” I got nothin’.

“And if, by some miracle, you find it?”

“The-a knife-a?” She grins. “Coincidence-a.”

“Of course it’s a coincidence,” I say under my breath. Why would it be anything else? “What about when you have your wedding ring on the next time you’re here?”

“I was-a wrong. It was-a at-a home.”

“Fuck, Nonna. You’ve thought this through so much I can’t even argue with you anymore.”