Twirled Bond (Holly Woods Files, #5) (18 page)

“It was hollow,” Bek explains gently. “She’d ripped a hole in the side against the wall and kept the box there.”

“That makes sense. Why I could never find them,” Stacia adds when I raise an eyebrow. “I looked loads of times but never could.”

“She was smart,” I agree.

She was. No doubt about it.

“I can’t see how letters between two teenagers could hold any real information about her disappearance.” Mrs. Russo clasps her hands on her lap, but they’re shaking. “Surely they were innocent.”

“They were.” It feels weird reassuring her when I’m about to break her heart. “Except the last one. She wrote a letter she never sent him. We feel it could have the key to why she died.”

She turns away and looks out the window for a long moment. She visibly takes a deep breath before she looks back at me and whispers, “Please tell me.”

“Daniela eluded very strongly that she was being abused by someone she knew. The letter was very short, and she begged Lucas for his help. She was afraid of what would happen if she told somebody, and I think, to her, he equaled an element of safety because he didn’t live here in town.”

She clasps her hand to her throat, her eyes shutting tightly. Her lips tremble as my words visibly sink in, as what I just said settles in the air between us and reality drenches her with its cruelness. Because that’s what this is: a cruel, hard reality riddled with heartbreak and guilt.

And I can see hers in her eyes.

Stacia moves to the sofa and perches next to her mom. She hasn’t spoken in several minutes. Nobody has. Speaking doesn’t seem right when I just dropped the equivalent of an emotional nuclear bomb on them.

If only I were done.

“From her letter, we assume it’s something that had been happening for a while. Her writing got suddenly worse at the end, so I think she was interrupted and needed to get it written quickly.”

“Did she give any kind of idea who it might have been?” Stacia asks, her voice low.

I shake my head. “Not even a ‘he’ or ‘she.’ Whoever it was, she was too afraid to give even a slight hint at their identity.”

Silence reigns for a moment before Mrs. Russo finally speaks.

“Who would do that to my baby?” she whispers, her voice hoarse. It cracks as she continues. “Who would hurt her that way?”

“Mom.” Stacia wraps her arms around her mom and holds her tight.

Bek and I avert our eyes as they share an intimate mom-daughter moment. Mrs. Russo’s silent tears don’t go unnoticed by me though. I wish I could hug her too, but I can’t. All I can do is apologize for being the bearer of such bad news.

God, I feel so guilty. More than that, I feel so sorry for her. My heart is broken for her.

“I’m so sorry I had to tell you that.” I pause as Mrs. Russo sits up and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. “And I’m even sorrier to ask if there’s anything else Daniela might have had that I can see that might give me more information regarding what was happening to her.”

“Of course... Anything... I... Excuse me for a moment.” Mrs. Russo pushes up from the sofa and shuffles out of the room. Her shoulders are hunched as she disappears, and Stacia shoots me an apologetic smile as she hurries after her.

I blow out a long breath and lean forward, cupping my hands over my mouth. God, that was so horrible. I just destroyed that woman’s world even more than it’d already been. I feel like a monster.

“That sucked,” Bek says quietly into her hand. “Ouch.”

I nod in agreement. “Bad. We should probably go. I don’t think she’s able to speak to us right now.”

“I think you’re right.” Bek’s gaze lands on the door right as Stacia reappears.

“I’m not sure Mom can talk anymore.” She clasps her hands against her stomach. “I’m sorry. I can have her call you tomorrow if it’ll help.”

“Don’t rush.” I stand, Bek following suit. I pull one of my cards out of my purse. “Here. Call me if you can think of anything too. Diaries, journals... Anything she may have kept private could help.”

Stacia takes the card and clutches it. Her hazel eyes are heavy with sadness. “I will. Thank you for everything you’re doing.”

I gently embrace her. “You’re welcome.”

Thinking back to my teenage years is harder than I thought it would be. Not to mention I’m kind of berating why technology came so late. It would be easier to find a blog in the abyss of the Internet than in an actual handwritten journal or something.

Obviously, that’s why I’ve rallied the troops. Bek, Amelia, and Alison, my partners-in-crime, are sitting around the table at the Inn with me. We toyed with the idea of going to our favorite bar in Austin in our group chat—see? Ten points to technology—but ultimately decided that it was too far away to drive to. So the Inn is where we’ve ended up.

“Honestly,” Amelia starts, stirring her straw around her glass of vodka cranberry, “I was so bad at keeping a journal. I lost them, like, all the time. I went through five in a month once before I found the lost ones when we moved a few weeks later.”

“How do you lose that many notebooks?” Bek asks, sucking up the last of her cocktail. “Were they needle-sized?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Amelia retorts dryly. “No, I was just forgetful.”

“You’re still forgetful,” Alison points out. “You lost your garter three times the morning of the wedding.”

It’s true. She could give me a run for my money. Although I’ve been oddly more organized since Drake moved in. I think it’s his anal organization issues. I like my crap in an organized chaos, but he likes it, well, not in chaos.

Except his laundry in the basket. That’s a motherfucking natural disaster.

“I’m so stuck,” I say, cutting into the conversation. “I read the journal I took yesterday, but there was nothing about even Lucas in there. It’s like she had three different lives: the Daniela we knew, the Daniela Lucas new, and the Daniela who was abused.”

Alison shrugs. “She probably compartmentalized them. PTSD probably played a huge part in not facing up to the abuse. Many victims can live their lives as though it isn’t happening until their brain can’t protect them anymore. As sad as it sounds, that part was probably closer to her everyday life, and Lucas was her escape from that.”

That made sense. A lot of it. If she spent a lot of time ignoring what was going on, then it stood to reason that I might never find anything with information in it.

I nod slowly and finish my glass of wine. “Another?” I ask, looking at everyone.

It takes a split second for a resounding “yes” to sound, because we met at my house and got a cab here, so I get up and head for the bar. Immediately, the conversation changes to Bek’s clusterfuck of a love life, but I tune it out as I wait to be served.

I love Bek. I do. With all of my heart. But goddamn, if I hear one more thing about Jason and Brody, I’m going to chuck myself out a window. Alison and Amelia have more than enough experience dealing with my brothers in the relationship department. They can handle this one.

I’m used to seeing them run naked from the shower to the towel cabinet as teenagers and throwing shit at my head at...well, any point, really.

The idea of them having sex is... Brr. I shudder right as the bartender approaches me and takes my order.

My mind immediately shoots back to Daniela. I’m missing something. I know I am. While I accept Alison’s PTSD theory, I just know I’m missing something. I have to be.

Is a letter to a stranger, without any clues at all, really the only evidence we have that she was abused? I don’t believe that. There has to be more than that. Somewhere, somehow, somebody knows something.

God damn it, I’m gonna find them. I have to find them. I need answers.

I have to know everything.

I pay for the drinks, stick my card back inside my bra, and pick the tray up to take it back to the table. They’re still talking about Jason and Brody as I sit and hand the drinks out.

“Wait.” I stop, my hand still wrapped around Bek’s glass, and look at her. “Jason sent you two dozen red roses?”

Her cheeks flush, and she nods.

“And my brother ignored you.”

She nods again.

Christ. I might even want her to go for Jason at this point.

“I don’t even think I’ve ever gotten roses from Drake.”

Alison snorts. “I’ve been with your brother for fifteen years and I’m not sure he’s ever bought me flowers, never mind roses.”

Naturally, we all look to Amelia.

She shrugs. “Dev bought me flowers last weekend.”

“Well, we can see which Bond got the romantic streak,” I say flatly.

What? I know that it wasn’t me. I’m as romantic as a rock—unless sending Drake food is the equivalent of him sending me flowers. Then I’m a fucking romance queen.

Actually, I think it might be.

Go me.

Bek sighs. “Was I being irrational?”

Amelia shrugs. “Maybe a little, but if you want different things...”

“That would be an acceptable explanation if she had any idea what she wants,” I point out before sipping my wine.

“I hate you sometimes,” she mutters, grabbing her drink.

“But you love me always, and that’s what matters.” I grin, leaning toward her. “Right?”

“Mmm.” She’s smiling though.

“Listen to me.” Alison leans forward, her eyes a little glazed from the alcohol but her voice perfectly steady. “Brody Bond is a pain in the ass, Bek. He ain’t gonna romance your ass. Jason though? He will. He is. One man is sendin’ you flowers and the other is pretendin’ you don’t exist. Pick real soon before one gets done.”

Well. The mama of the group just laid down the law real good.

Bek sighs heavily, looking into her glass. “I wish I was thirteen again and my biggest decision was whether or not to replace the poster of Justin Timberlake with Mark Wahlberg on the inside of my locker.”

“Did you?” Amelia asks. “Replace it.”

“I printed smaller pictures.” She grins.

“I remember that. It was traumatic. Until I stole the JT poster.” Now, it’s my turn to grin.

Even if something twinges in the back of my mind.

Something I can’t put my finger on.

I
t’s been twenty-four hours since I found the letters, and in such a short time, everything with the investigation has gone to shit.

Even more media trucks have descended on our tiny town, making the roads almost impossible to drive on. Believe me when I say that, for Holly Woods, that’s no easy feat. We have a lot of roads and not a lot of people to fill them.

Aside from that, at four a.m., Drake got the call we’ve all been waiting for.

The teeth Tim pulled from the skeleton match Daniela Russo’s dental records. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Drake thankful to not be allowed to go back into work because he only left the station five hours earlier. He’s been ordered off until noon, and I think he’s super glad not to be the person who has to tell the Russo family that it’s their daughter.

I can’t help but feel so sorry for Dori Russo. Yesterday, I delivered a huge blow, and today, she’s getting the news she’s known in her gut all along.

A missing persons investigation just officially became a homicide investigation. One with a whole lot of questions and even less answers than normal... Not to mention a likely unconvicted sex offender on the loose.

Woohoo, Holly Woods.
You’re on fire.

Almost literally if this carries on. I can just see the entire town going up in flames.

“What happens now?”

“Sheriff’s already been to see the Russos.” Drake wraps his hands around his mug of coffee and blows on it, making sure to keep his voice low. “They’ll have found out by eight o’clock this morning. We have a press conference set for three. We can’t keep this information to ourselves for much longer.”

I nod but don’t respond until the two young women with dictating thingies in their hands have left the café. I eye them as they walk past the café and disappear around the corner. “Is the memorial still going ahead tonight?”

“I assume so. Tim still doesn’t want to release the body because he’s waiting on test results, so they’ll have to wait a little for a full funeral.”

“God.” I lean forward on the table, crossing my forearms. “Can you imagine how Mrs. Russo is feeling right now?”