“Becca?”
“No. No, no, no.” She scrabbled on hands and knees over her bed and clutched at the fretboard of the destroyed guitar lying on the far side. She hugged it to her chest, shoulders shaking and gasping around suppressed sobs, and the wires dragged still-connected pieces of the guitar’s bridge and body into her lap. She caved in over it, her back trembling and tense. “No, no,” she rasped, tears choking off her voice.
Nick’s throat went tight and he was beside her in an instant, wrapping himself around her and whispering soft shushes. “It’s okay, sunshine. It’s okay.” The words felt like crushed glass in his mouth because, whatever this was, it wasn’t in the same fucking zip code as okay.
“Is not . . . was . . . Sc-Scott’s,” she managed around hitches of breath. “Was all . . . all . . . I had . . . l-left.”
Sinking onto the edge of the mattress, he pulled her whole body into his lap, settled her face into the crook of his neck, and held her close. Her hand fisted so tight into his shirt that it would probably never fit the same, but he didn’t care. He’d bear anything if she didn’t have to be going through this right now. She shook against him and held her breath in an effort to restrain the overflow of emotion, and Nick just rubbed her back and kissed her sweaty forehead and vowed on his dead parents’ graves he would find the animals responsible for hurting her. Then he’d take those motherfuckers down.
Slowly, the shuddering became less severe and her breathing calmed. Rixey was acutely aware that they’d been at the house longer than they should, but he also didn’t want to further upset her.
She slipped her hand between their bodies and wiped at her face.
He tugged up the bottom of his shirt and held it out. “Here. Use me.”
A single sad, choked laugh escaped her, but she took him up on her offer, burying her face into his chest as she dried her eyes on the hem of his shirt. When she let it go, it was damp against his skin.
Still in his lap, she eased upright. “Do you . . . h-have . . . a knife?”
Holding her, he leaned over and retrieved the blade from his ankle sheath. “What do you need?”
“Will it cut these wires fr-free?” She blew out a breath, trying to calm herself. “Stupid, but I want to take this.” Her knuckles were nearly white from gripping the fretboard so hard.
The blade made quick work of slicing through the metal wires. “It’s not stupid at all.” He returned the knife to its hiding place, then cupped her face in his hand. Eyes puffy, face red, damp hair sticking to the sides of her cheeks, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “I know it’s not fair for me to rush you, but we—”
“I know.” She pushed off his chest.
He held her tight another moment. When her sad blue eyes flipped up to his face, he leaned in slowly and kissed her on the lips. No pressure. No heat. Just a tender press of flesh on flesh to let her know he was there. “Whoever did this, Becca, I’m going to make them pay.” He helped her to her feet.
When she got down, she moved quickly, almost mechanically, retrieving some clothing here, loose pictures there, and a handful of jewelry she was able to fish out of the mess on the floor. “My bracelet,” she gasped, pulling a strand of silver charms out from under a pile of crushed seashells. “It was from my dad.” She clipped it to her wrist.
“Careful, Becca,” he said as she picked through the debris. Shattered glass and sharp-edged shells were everywhere.
“I will. This is my mom’s jewelry box. Where the locket was.” She lifted the wooden box, now mostly empty. “I wonder . . .” Pulling out the bottom drawer, she reached her hand in. Something clicked, and a drawer popped out on the back. A small sheet of paper sat within. She gasped.
Nick crouched beside her.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Charlie used to love to play with this when we were kids. He was absolutely fascinated with the hidden compartment. My mom would leave dollar bills in it for him to find.” She unfolded the small, square sheet. It read, “WCE 754374329 United Bank of Singapore 12M.” What in the world? “Those are the same letters and numbers as in the locket. It’s a bank account?”
“Looks that way. Good job, Becca. This could be a real lead.” And not just for Charlie. If that 12M stood for what he thought, it was a dollar amount. The kind one could make, say, from having a longtime hand in the heroin trade in Afghanistan. Determination settled in his gut, and a little hope, too. “We’ll get Marz on this. See what he can make of it.”
She nodded, then crossed to her closet, where she retrieved a big tote bag and dropped her treasures in, including the rubber duck. Rooting around in the loose clothes on the floor, she finally yanked a navy blue sweatshirt from the pile. She shook it and held it up. “Wonder if Jeremy would get it,” she said, turning it toward him. It read, “There are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary, and those who don’t.”
“I don’t get it,” Nick said.
She gave a small smile. “It’s a nerd joke. Charlie gave it to me.” After adding it to the bag, she knelt and repacked a box of what looked like mostly papers and photos that had been dumped out. “I want to take these,” she said, pushing the box and tote toward him as she rose. “One more thing.” She rolled open the drawer to her nightstand. “Fuck.”
“What?” he said, a murderous storm brewing in his gut on her behalf.
“They stole my goddamned gun. I should’ve taken it that first night, but I thought I’d be back . . .” Nick peered into the mostly empty drawer just before she slammed it shut on a growl. “I am so fucking . . . mad.”
He didn’t blame her in the least. He was seething, and this hadn’t even happened to him. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a piece at home that might be good for you.”
“I don’t want your gun, I want my gun,” she said, tugging her fingers through the length of her hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bite your head off. But I am . . .” Her hands clenched into fists, and she leaned her forehead against them. “I just wanna kill someone right now. Which is . . . a really fucking bad thing for a nurse to want to do.”
Rixey bit back the kernel of humor her words unleashed. Truth be told, he admired her rage. She was hurt, she was overwhelmed, and she was no doubt scared out of her mind, but she wasn’t letting it break her. Anger was good. Anger helped you fight. And, Jesus, but she was fierce and sexy when she was enraged.
He never thought he’d say it, but he had to give Frank Merritt credit for this one thing—he’d raised a strong, courageous daughter who could handle herself when the shit was hitting the fan. If Charlie was anything like her, they had a better-than-average shot at him being alive and making it out of this fubar.
She huffed and threw out her hands in a gesture of Enough, her bracelet jingling in emphasis. “There’s only one thing I want from the office, and then I’m done. Promise.” Retrieving the box and tote, he followed her into the hallway, reaching back in to douse the ceiling light. She made her way to the front room, then groaned and cursed and kicked paper around for a minute before returning with a stuffed bear in an Army uniform, complete with ID tags. “This stuff is all I have left of them, you know?”
“I get it. You don’t have to justify it to me, Becca. Anything else you can think of, quick?”
She tucked the bear into the bag and shook her head. “No, I’m done. Let’s get out of here before something else happens. Besides, this place is pissing me off.”