Drake snorts. “Bit of an age difference between cousins.”
“Hey!” I prod his upper arm. “I have a cousin twenty years older than I am. Actually, I have a couple. But then I do have four aunts, seven uncles, and fifteen cousins, not to mention eight great-aunts and uncles so… Never mind.”
“Really? That many?”
“Yeah. They all live in Italy. Well, I think I have a couple cousins somewhere over here for college. Maybe one in the UK… Crap, Drake. I don’t know. I can barely keep tabs on myself, let alone my whole family.” I roll my eyes. “It’s why I don’t have a cat. I’d lose it.”
“Cats rarely get lost,” Jason says, presumably helpfully.
“Noelle could lose a ten-ton boulder,” Drake mutters.
“I’ll lose it on your balls if you keep being a shithead,” I threaten. “Can we get back to this now, please?”
“Yes. Let’s,” Jason inputs. “I’m saying that Dina and Jackson were family. We’ll have to interview him to find out exactly how they’re related.”
“Hmmm.” I shrug and move on. “Who would want to kill Dina? She was eccentric and all that, but she doesn’t seem like she’d hurt a fly.” I wipe my latex-covered finger across a windowsill, dislodging a light layer of dust. I wipe it against my thigh.
“Neither did Lena, Daniel, Natalie, Vince, Toni, Melissa, Annabelle, or Tracey,” Drake drawls.
He’s really starting to bug my ass.
I shoot him a hard look before resuming my wander of the front room.
“Ohh,” Brody groans, walking into the living room. “Y’all are fightin’ again?”
“We aren’t fighting. Yet,” I add, running my eyes over the books. “And, to continue, Detective Nash”—I throw over my shoulder—“when I first came here, she told me about their rules of Karma or something.I don’t remember it, but she was pretty solid on about always doing good.”
“Wiccan Rule of Three,” Jason answers.
When I turn, he’s nodding.
“They believe that whatever they put into the world comes back on them threefold.”
“So they kill one person, three people kill them?” Brody asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Not entirely accurate, but that’s the general idea.” Jason walks to the bookcase I’m standing in front of. “They’re all Wiccan books. History books, spell books… Dina White was hardcore Wiccan. She probably isn’t the only one. Noelle,” he says, looking at me.
I immediately straighten my features out. I didn’t mean to scrunch up my face. Honest.
“The baseline principle is that it’s religion,” he tells me.
“Noelle is crap with religion,” Brody helpfully says. In fact, he says it with way too much glee.
“Watch it, you,” I warn him. “I can always pray for impotency to befall you.”
He shuts up real quick.
That’s what I thought.
“It’s religion,” Jason repeats, looking between us.
I wonder if he’s starting to realize how crazy the people I love are.
“Whatever we make of that, she believed in it,” he continues. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone. I don’t believe she was involved in our murders.”
“You think this case is separate?” I can’t hide the shock from my voice. “Totally unrelated?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Are you serious?” I turn to face him fully. “You don’t think Dina’s murder has anything to do with what we’re already investigating?”
“Well…”
I look between Drake and Brody. “Do you think the same?”
They both shrug.
“It could be anything,” Brody says quietly. “We really don’t have enough to connect them, and you know that.”I take a deep breath and look around the apartment, from the bohemian throw cushions on the sofa to the gauzy fabric peeking out from beneath the thick, red, velvet curtains framing her windows.
They’re deluded if they think this isn’t connected. They’re totally fucking crazy if they think Dina’s murder is unconnected to the others.
I get it. I get that they have to treat it as a potentially individual case because of regulations.
Well, guess what? I don’t have to abide by that bullshit. I don’t have to listen to that crap or follow those rules.
So, while they’re treating Dina’s murder as unconnected until proved otherwise, I’m gonna be treating it connected until they hand me concrete proof that it isn’t.
“What’s this?” Drake asks, pointing at the calendar.
“That’s called a calendar,” I tell him dryly. “You know—those things people use to keep track of the date and their appointments?”
“Hardy fuckin’ har,” he grinds out through a tight jaw. “I mean what’s written on it.”
“Those are called words,” I chirp happily, moving across the room.
“I’m gonna fire your ass in a minute.”
“You wish.” I bump my hip against his so he moves to the side and look at the calendar. Oooh, cats. Pretty calendar.
Focus, Noelle. Fuck it.
“See it?” Drake asks, cupping the back of my neck with his hand. He massages it gently.
Not entirely sure if he’s doing that to relax me or simply keep me in place.
It works for both.
I scan the date section of the calendar, ignoring the brown-eyed tabby on the picture above it. It has the expected things on there for the average store owner—meeting with her accountant, delivery dates, and the like—and the fair is starred out with red pen, one for each day. This weekend’s trip isn’t on it, however.
“Her trip isn’t on it,” I point out. “It was last minute.”
“I did notice,” he says. “But look—the letter A with a star is on every other day of the fair. It’s nowhere else. See?” He flips the bottom page up to reveal July, and he’s right. August is the same. No little A anywhere.
“What’s A?” I ask, looking at him.
He presses his lips together. “Not what. I think the question is: Who?”
The music from the fair rides fills the air. The hazy glow of the bright, fluorescent bulbs from the rides reaches high into the night sky, blocking the stars from dotting the darkness. The rich smell of candy and fried food filters between each stall and ride, temptation oozing all around me.
Resist the fucking hot dogs, Noelle. Resist. The. Hot. Dogs.
You’re not here to eat. You’re here to find Jackson Bullock and unravel the mystery of his relationship with Dina White.
There’s something there.
My phone buzzes in my butt pocket, and I pull it out. I can only see one word of the message from Drake, but it’s enough to make me want to shove my phone out of eyesight and continue with my mission.
Another missing. Headed to station. Meet at yours.
Short but not so sweet.
I’ve given up hope that any missing girl will show up alive. It sounds bad, but even though Lilly Paul turned up safe and sound, it feels like every missing girl reported in the Austin area will eventually be found dead. I wonder how many parents are waiting for their daughters to call them right now. How many are wondering whether it’ll come or whether they’ll hear the click of a key in the door?
How many of them are wondering if their children will check in this weekend?
How many of them are afraid to take their daughters to school for fear they’ll never come home again?
I text Drake a simple K. Clutching my phone, I head for the place where I know Jackson’s stall is.
Someone has to unravel this mystery. Someone has to figure what the hell is going on in this town.
Shit, this town is home. It’s everything and then some to me. And, despite the previous issues, people just don’t turn up dead in Holly Woods. Not at this rate. Not for some hateful, seemingly random, religious crime.
The worst religious crime ever recorded was when Liliana Bond told Betty Hooper that her soul was cursed by the devil and hit her with her rosary because she got two full houses at bingo. It resulted in a heavy sigh from Sheriff Bates, a month-long ban from the bingo hall, and an envelope of Betty’s Chihuahua’s poop through the mailbox. Nonna responded by putting the head of a dead raccoon in Betty’s.