Perks of living in a cop family. I was picking liars out of a line up before I could tie my own shoes. And the body language? Well, I might hate people, but I’m a little obsessed with studying them.
“If my client says he didn’t see her, he didn’t see her,” he responds tightly.
“And we have DNA evidence that says that your client did see her, and that he saw her very intimately. We also have eyewitness statements confirming that Toni Thompson had a verbal exchange in the school parking lot with Brook Meyers then drove off after him just hours before she went missing,” I lie, dragging my gaze back to the teenage boy in front of me, who is now visibly sweating. I sit forward and rest my forearms on the table. “So, how are we going to do this, Mr. Meyers? Are you going to admit you lied and tell me what really happened, or do I have to advise that you’re arrested for statutory rape, being involved with her disappearance and murder, and, by default, the abduction and murder of two other women?”
His eyes flick between me and his lawyer. God, call me a sadist, but I love it when they squirm.
“I saw her,” he finally admits, his shoulders dropping. He looks at his hands on the table. “She told her parents she had studying to do after school and came to my place. My parents were at work.”
“And you had sex.”
He nods once.
“For the record of the tape, Brook Meyers is nodding yes,” I tell the recorder. “Was this the first time the two of you have had intercourse?”
“No,” he says quietly.
“How long for?”
He shrugs. “Couple months.”
“When did Toni leave your house on the day of her disappearance?”
“Four thirty, before my parents came home.”
“And you stayed home? All night?”
“Yes, ma’am. Toni said she was going home. That was the last time I saw her.”
No twitching. No moving gaze. No indication of any untruth.
“There,” I say, adding a sweet smile to the word. “That wasn’t too hard now, was it? Thank you, Mr. Meyers.” I push back and hold my hand out to Mr. Goldberg.
Clearly pained, he stands and takes my hand. “Private investigation hasn’t killed your ruthlessness, I see.”
“You call it ruthless, I call it determined,” I reply tightly, squeezing his hand just a little tighter. I release it and walk to the door.
Drake is still standing there, his eyes icy not only in color. I give him a look just as hard as the one he’s giving me, and he steps to the side. I open the door and walk through it, my heels clicking against the linoleum floor.
“Someone will be in to speak with you soon.” Drake shuts the door behind him.
“How’d it go?” Trent asks when I walk past his office door.
I pause. “Full confession. He was telling the truth. He didn’t see her after they had sex. You’re welcome.”
He shakes his head. “Dunno how you do it.”
“I’m a pain in the ass. It’s a skill. Also helps when I hate the representing lawyer.” I shrug and walk into Drake’s office. Then I grab my purse from the floor behind the desk and kick my heels off. While I switch them out for my flats, the door shuts louder than it should.
“Noelle.”
I barely glance up. “If you’re not apologizing, don’t bother.”
Silence.
Sounds about right.
I throw my purse over my shoulder and walk to his office door. He’s locked it, so I turn the switch to unlock it and open it. I stop in the doorway and give him one last chance by way of a look thrown over my shoulder, but his demeanor is just as grumpy as it was two minutes ago. His jaw is tight, his muscles taut and his eyes cutting.
No apology is falling from those lips.
“You need a ride?” Trent asks, hovering by his door.
I turn to him. “It’s no big deal. I can walk. It isn’t far.”
“You can’t walk with your foot,” Drake grinds out.
I take two steps and, without turning around, bite out, “Oh, look! I walked. How about that?”
“Noelle,” Trent sighs. He grabs my upper arm and pulls me toward the door. “Let’s go.”
I allow him to drag me outside and toward his truck. Without a word, we both get in. I dump my purse at my feet, buckle up, and stare out the window.
I have a feeling some big-brotherly advice is coming my way, but honestly, I don’t want it. At all.
Once again, work has come between me and Drake—and it was an interview. One tiny, little interview.
You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about working with him last time I had to do this. It was much more fun when I could just have their systems hacked, barter for autopsy reports, and draw my own conclusions about things.
It was so much easier when I could just piss him off without worrying about hurting his feelings. Actually… It was easier when I didn’t care whether he even had feelings. For all I knew, Detective Drake Nash was a robot.
Relationships are bullshit, really.
Trent pulls up outside my house and rests his arm on the top of the steering wheel, turning his body toward me. He takes a deep breath. “Noelle,” he says quietly, forcing me to look at him. “You know that you two really don’t work well together, don’t you?”
I nod, looking down. I pick some lint off my shirt and watch as it falls to the floor of the truck. “I know.”
“So, why do you keep agreeing to do it? Aside from the fact that you’re a damn fool.”
“Because I’m a damn fool,” I answer. “I thought that much was obvious.”
“That’s it? You agree to work with us and risk endless fights with him because you’re a fool?”
I stare at him.
“Wait. No. That makes total sense. God, and here I thought my sister was the sensible one out of us.”
I snort and grab my purse. “If I were sensible, I’d have gotten married five years ago.”
“Yeah. You’re never gonna be sensible.”
“Bite me.”
No bodies. No disappearances.
Nothing.
It doesn’t feel right. It’s a sad state of affairs when that happens. The last few days have me waking up and checking my phone just in case I missed calls telling me about someone going missing or being killed.
Although, this morning, my heart still sank. I thought Drake might have at least texted an apology. I mean, I know that the man can’t say sorry to save his life, but fucking hell. I figured he may have learned how to text the word.
That said, I ate a cupcake for breakfast and decided I wasn’t going to dwell on it because there are other, more important things going on in the world. Like the fact that I’m out of cupcakes, wine, and the ingredients to make margaritas.
Which means I need to go to the store.
Also, my Satanic Bible has arrived.
And that’s something I never thought I’d say.
Kind of feel like I need to pray for my life in the event that Nonna discovers it. Then again… Maybe it can be used against Gio.
Yep. That’s it. I’m keeping the bible in my purse and waving it in Gio’s face next time he comes near me. Maybe the very presence of it will curse him and convince Nonna to get rid of the little critter.
A girl can hope.
I change quickly. Into my yoga pants, okay? I’m wearing yoga pants. It’s Saturday. I’m emotionally distressed. I have three hundred pages of an ode to Satan sitting next to my purse.
If you can do all of that and put on “real” pants, then, well, good for you, you weirdo.
I throw the book into my purse and grab my keys. The store can wait—I want to learn about those little markings that were on the bodies. I know that the answers to my questions are between the pages of this book, and well, there are cupcakes at the office, so that’s why I’m headed in.
Also, there’s paper. Apparently, the only paper I have in my house is a bunch of receipts I need to file for taxes. I’m not sure my accountant would be impressed if I scribbled satanic things all over them.
I set my alarm and head out. My foot stings as I drive, but I push through the tinge of pain. Still, I’m grateful to kick my shoes off as soon as I get into my empty office building. I disable the alarm and shut the door before I walk into the meeting room. The color charts have finally been removed from the table, no doubt by Grecia, so I dump my purse on top of it and pull out everything I need. Then I find an empty notebook in my office and sit.