Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I wear my gun the way makeup-loving women wear mascara.
My gun is like my panties: necessary to wear if you want to avoid unfortunate events.
That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it… Never mind that my gun has come out in more than a few unfortunate events in the last few months, and the most unfortunate things my panties have had to deal with are being brand new and white when Mother Nature stopped by for coffee and cake.
I’m almost inclined to say the latter is more unfortunate. Panties are expensive.
The smell of hot dogs assaults my nose, and I breathe in that fabulously greasy scent. I don’t think my stopping to fill my stomach would go down well—never mind that I was pulled out of dinner. There’s a potential fugitive on the loose. This crazy bitch can starve!
I kind of feel like, right now, the HWPD are like the Beast in Beauty and the Beast. You know that part where Belle refuses to go for dinner and Beast is like, “Staaaaaarrrrvvvveeee!”
Yeah. That part.
If my stomach were a praying mantis, it’d be nomming on its lover right now. Nomnomnom.
Oh my God, I’m so hungry.
Just one hot dog.
Just one.
Fuck it.
I’m getting a hot dog.
I approach the stall. I get my hot dog. I eat my hot dog. It’s wonderful.
Screw you, HWPD. New pants are going on my expenses bill.
With my hunger satiated, I grab a Diet Coke from another stall and pop the top.
Have you ever tried to find someone in an overrun fair on a Friday night? I don’t recommend it. I honestly believe that Drake and his cronies could have bust in here like a SWAT team, all badass motherfucker, and nailed this pint-sized prick before I will.
They wouldn’t have stopped for food. That’s for sure. Well, this is what happens when you drag me away from family dinner, which was promising carbs and more carbs with a side of carbs, and force me to work on an empty stomach.
My phone shrills in my purse, and I jump. I hate it when it turns itself on loud. I much prefer my phone on silent—that way, I don’t have to talk to people. If my phone is silent, I can be all, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear it.” Because it didn’t ring, because you’re an asshole.
I kid. Maybe. Professionally, I know a bunch of assholes. I guess that’s a good thing about being hired by the council-slash-mayor-slash-police. I don’t have to deal with… Shit. Never mind.
My phone rings again, and I dig it out from the deep depths of my latest Mary Poppins purse. Upon finding it, I answer it and hold it against my ear triumphantly.
“Hello?”
“She has-a called-a it-a off-a!”
Oh sweet baby Jesus on steroids. “Nonna?” I ask over the noise. “Is that you?”
“Amelia’s called off the wedding!” she spits in Italian.
I pull the phone down, hold it between my breasts, and touch my fingers to my forehead, breastbone, and shoulders, then the sky in the cross motion. Thank you, God. Maybe you do exist after all.
While I have your attention, sir, have a word with Satan, will ya? Thanks.
“Oh, Nonna. Maybe she isn’t ready,” I attempt to say softly. My voice is flat. I’m happier than anything.
Amelia is not ready to get married in two weeks. Amelia wants to get married when she wants to get married, and that’s the end of it.
“When Trent called and said he wouldn’t be at dinner because of what was found out, she got up and she lost it. She screamed the wedding was off and it wasn’t happening and ran out!” Nonna continues, still in an angry stream of her mother tongue. “How can she stop it? It is paid for! Noella, you have to talk to her!”
So. Much. Italian.
It doesn’t go well with a town fair.
“Wanna Hook-A-Duck?” I ask her lamely.
“Noella! This is serious! She does not want to marry your brother!”
All the Italian. Make it stop. Cazzo! “What? Nonna, are you there? Nonna? I can’t hear you!”
“Noella!” she cries desperately. So desperately that I almost feel bad for my breaking-up trick.
Almost.
“Can’t hear you, Nonna!” I insist, rounding past Alex’s tent and keeping my head down.
Eddie Roy sees me from a burger van and raises his hand in a wave. I return it, still protesting to Nonna just how very bad our connection is.
Then I see him.
He’s standing behind a girl. Her purple hair is tied into a ponytail, some of it flicking over his shoulder, and she turns her face to him, laughing.
If she’s eighteen, then I’m a virgin.
“Gotta go, Nonna. I’ll call you.” I hang up and drop my phone into my purse. Then I back right into a solid wall of muscle. “Oh my fuck. I’m so sorry,” I ramble, turning and pushing against the body.
“You’re all right,” Alex says, amused, taking my hands and dropping them.
I glance at his tent then at him, an uncomfortable crawl moving across my skin. “How did you—never mind. I have to go. Sorry.” I dart away from him, wincing when pain slices through my foot for the millionth time today.
Thankfully, he doesn’t follow me, and I’m able to trace Brook Meyers and his mysterious purple-haired chick to a burger stall. This particular one is busy, and I join the line. He doesn’t seem to have done anything menacing. The most dangerous thing is that he’s pinching his date’s ass.
Still, he’s a person of interest. He could make a difference. I know that better than anyone.
Plus, his girlfriend just died, and apparently, so did his bonk-buddy. Doesn’t he have a heart? Or does he just not care?
I pull my phone out and text Detective Nash a handful of words.
Barney’s Burgers, Alex’s stall, left, right, left.
How else do you describe a position in the middle of a goddamn field?
He understands it, because just as Brook and his date have their food handed to them, Drake appears from the crowd with Brody and Detective Johnson flanking him.
I can’t hear his words, but I see the glint of silver as my little brother, Detective Brody Bond, removes handcuffs from his back pocket. I see the movement of Detective Drake Nash’s lips as he reads the teenage boy his rights and the grimace of Detective Johnson as it happens.
As he’s led away, I step up to the counter, order three fries, three cheeseburgers and three coffees and call Bek.
I’m gonna need a ride to the station.
The coffee is cold, the burgers are congealed, and the fries best resemble Play-Doh more than anything else.
All untouched. All going on my fucking expenses.
I’ve been sitting in Drake’s office chair for the last two hours while they’ve been questioning Brook. Apparently, I’m good enough to find him and have him arrested but not to sit in while they question him.
I kick off the side of the desk and spin around in the chair. Wheeeeee. Ugh. I should have eaten at least one of those burgers. I mean, I did drink one of the coffees.
Okay, it was two. I drank two. Which is exactly why I said the coffee is cold. There’s only one left.
I’m also kind of buzzy. It occurs to me that maybe the second cup of coffee was a bad idea, but then again, wasting it was also a bad idea. At the time, at least.
I should really do something. I’ve been sitting here for hours, doing nothing but trawl Facebook, play Juice Jam, and spin on Drake’s chair. I’m ashamed to say I even bought coins on Juice Jam just so I could go past my five heart-slash-life thingies I’m allowed.
I know. I’ll text Amelia. Arrange a girls’ night. Because that’s absolutely what one needs smack-dab in the middle of a serial murder investigation.
Actually…nachos, pizza, alcohol, and good friends are exactly what one needs smack-dab in the middle of a serial murder investigation.