But I can’t. So I stand here, against my brother’s side, watching as Drake radios in the body.
I’d be a fool to think Annabelle wasn’t connected to Toni and Melissa.
It strikes fear through my body like nothing else. Sure, we’ve dealt with multiple murders. Both times, we solved it before more than two people were killed, and that was different. Those crimes were personal—there were real and emotional motives behind them.
Now, we have a third body. We have a third innocent, undeserving-of-a-brutal-crime, lifeless victim.
I have no idea how to process this information.
I extract myself from Trent’s grasp and turn away. My gentle steps across the dirt turn to a run on my tiptoes as my soul demands that I get as far away from this situation as possible.
Of course, my as-far-away-as-possible is Drake’s car. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything.
Another body. Number three. The one that means we have something far more vicious and brutal than we ever imagined.
It means we have a serial killer on our hands.
I stumble through the dirt and trip over a loose twig just yards from Drake’s squad car. Pain slices through my instep. “Fuck!” I yell, hopping toward Drake’s car. I lean against the side of the hood, drop my shoes to the grass, and, bracing my hand on the windshield, rest my ankle on my knee so I can check the bottom of my foot.
There’s a cut running diagonally across my skin—not particularly deep, but deep enough that the inch-long slice is bleeding steadily. Immediately, I move it so no blood gets on my skirt.
Hey. Have you ever tried to get blood out of clothing? It’s damn hard, and I love this skirt.
“Noelle?”
Drake and Trent come bursting through the trees, shoulder to shoulder. Worry is etched across both of their faces, although their expressions are wildly different. Trent’s eyebrows are raised, his brown eyes hard and his lips turned down. Drake’s lips are parted, his eyebrows drawn down into an intense frown, and his cheeks are almost red.
But it’s his eyes. It’s always his eyes. That icy blue is hot with every kind of fear I’ve ever seen and several types I haven’t.
“I’m okay,” I reassure them, grasping my lower calf. “I just cut my foot on something sharp as I came back.”
“On what?” Trent looks at the ground.
“I don’t know. A broken twig? I didn’t exactly fucking stop like, ‘Oh, bitch, you just cut me!’” I yell, wincing as another burst of pain slices through my foot. “Ouch, you slimy little bastarding motherfucker!”
“You don’t do pain well, do you?” Drake murmurs, taking my foot and looking at it. “Can you take these off?” He touches the stitched toe of my stockings. “They won’t be helping.”
“Uh…” I glance around at the officers watching then meet Drake’s eyes and tap my upper thigh.
“Turn around,” he snaps at everyone else.
Once they have, I reach beneath my skirt and roll off the stocking.
“Bag.” He holds it out until a plastic bag is produced. Then he drops it in.
He needs it to keep me separate from the scene.
I take a deep breath and wince again as my toe twitches. Good fucking God. This shit hurts.
“Where’d you cut it?” Drake releases my ankle and leans back on his heels. He unbuttons his shirt, revealing his tan, toned torso.
“What are you doing?”
He bunches the pure-white material up and presses it against my foot. “Stopping your bleeding,” he replies simply. He lifts his radio and tells the person on the other end about my injury. When he drops it, his gaze is a mixture of cop-eyes and caring-eyes. “Where’d you cut your foot?”
“Two yards, maybe?” I shrug, taking over holding his shirt against my foot, which is still bleeding. “I hopped here, so it can’t be more. I have shit balance.”
“I wanna argue, given those shoes.” He cuts his eyes to said shoes. “But okay. Can you point?”
I draw my bottom lip between my teeth and scan the area. Annabelle’s body is—gulp—over there, so… “Between that tree, the big one, and here.” I glance down at the red stain now soaking through his shirt and slap my cheek to keep consciousness. “So between here and there.”
“Are you all right?” Trent asks, his worried gaze penetrating my confident barrier.
“Fine. Just…bleeding,” I reply, steadfastly refusing to stare at my foot.
Yeah. I hate blood. It’s almost up there with spiders.
“Look.” Drake’s word is short and sharp, and although he’s handed over pressure of his shirt to me, he isn’t willing to move, apparently.
Not that I mind. The man is fine. With those broad shoulders and curvy biceps and pecs that just wanna be snuggled.
“Yes,” Trent replies sharply. Clearly, he wants to be here but is refusing to argue with his boss.
It’s cute that Drake won’t leave me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper just as he grasps my waist and sits me on his hood properly.
“You look like you’re about to pass out,” he says back softly. He covers my hand with his, and I cry out at the pain that darts up my leg. “Sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling me into him. “You’re all right, cupcake. Ambulances are on their way.”
“Fuck that.” I fight back, feeling the effects of the blood loss. Apparently, the cut was deeper than I thought. “No hospital.”
“No hospital,” he promises. His touch is the warm, soothing sensation my crawling skin needs.
“Fuck it,” Trent curses.
“What?” I ask, pushing away from Drake and attempting to look over his shoulder.
Drake shifts, still holding on to me, and looks at Trent. “What is it?”
Trent draws in a deep breath as he comes level with us. Well, as level as he can with the corner of a car between us.
I gotta say that bleeding out from my foot isn’t how I imagined Detective Drake Nash leaning over me on the hood of his squad car. I was thinking more heels, stockings, and a thong.
Fuck you, murderer. Fuck you.
Slowly, blurrily, my brother lifts a clear, plastic bag with a pocket knife in it. Red stains the sharp tip, both fresh and old, and nausea makes my stomach roll and flip and, good fucking God, it pirouettes into the national ballet group or whatever it is.
My blood. Mixing with someone else’s.
I look to the side and press my mouth into my hand as bile forces its way up my throat, burning every second it travels.
I barely hear Drake tell Trent to hide it before his strong arm catches me as I pass out.
My neck hurts.
I blink harshly and stretch my whole body out. It feels as though water spread through my veins and iced in the time I was out. Every muscle feels stiff, but as my eyes open, I instantly recognize my surroundings.
I’m at Drake’s.
More specifically, I’m in Drake’s bed.
I rub my eyes and roll to the side. A sharp sting radiates across my foot, and this morning comes rushing back to me. Holy shit—I cut my goddamn foot. I sit up too quickly and my head spins, so I press my fingertips against my forehead until the feeling passes.
Soft fabric brushes my stomach, and I move the sheet covering me to the side. I’m no longer wearing what I was earlier—now, I’m wearing one of Drake’s precious white button-down shirts.
Holy shit.
He covered my foot with one and then changed me into one while I was unconscious.
His precious, beloved, prized white shirts.
Note to self: Buy him two new shirts for Christmas. He’s never getting this fucker back. It’s the softest thing to ever touch my skin, and I once owned a cashmere sweater.
I pull the soft collar up to cover my mouth. It smells exactly like him: like coffee and chocolate and gunpowder. I wonder if he rubbed himself all over this like a kitten before he put me in it.
No. That’s odd and so un-Drake-like. Sheesh—did I get a concussion when I passed out?