Apparently, old ladies are vindictive as fuck.
I guess they’ve had a long time to hone their bitch streak.
For what it’s worth, we were all too afraid to question the raccoon head. It was four years ago.
My stomach flips as I turn onto the walkway where I know Jackson’s ice cream stall is. I might have to avoid the hot dogs, but I could sure go for some—
Behave. Fucking hell.
Jackson Bullock is your typical teenage boy. At least, I’m assuming he’s a teenager—the blotchy, red acne dotting his chin alludes to as much. His dark hair is cut close to his head, and if he didn’t have the cutest smile I’ve ever damn well seen—Silvio not included, because who tops a four-year-old?—I’d wonder how he draws the giggles of these teen girls.
I get in the line of only three people and watch him interact with customers. He gives the little girl at the front extra sprinkles with a wink. The identical boys behind her earn themselves an extra cherry on the top each. The young couple in front of me get extra scoops.
How does this kid stay in business?
Ah—I see. The free shit.
To paraphrase Yoda: The smarts are strong with this one.
“Hi! What can I get for you?” Jackson asks as I step up to the stall.
Yep. He’s definitely a teenager.
I glance over my shoulder. No one is behind me. I love it when that happens.
“Actually, I’m not here for ice cream.” I shrug sheepishly. “I was hoping we could talk.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “We haven’t met, have we?”
“No…” I pull a card out from my front pocket and hand it to him. “My name is Noelle Bond. I’m a private investigator and—”
“You’re working on the murders,” he summarizes, staring at my card. He looks up with dark-blue eyes.
“Yes, but I was actually wondering if you could help me with something else.”
“Hang on—let me serve this guy behind you.” He steps to one side, so I move out of the way and wait patiently as he gives the guy his ice cream and rings the order up. “Sorry,” he says, turning his attention to me. “What did you need me for?”
I bite the inside of my cheek but release it almost as quickly. “Do you know a Dina White?”
He stills. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”
“Could you—it’s okay. I have time. Serve them.” I smile, gesturing to the family of five and the mother frantically trying to control an obviously tired two-year-old.
The dad shoots me a grateful smile.
When they’re gone, Jackson turns to me. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“Could you tell me your relationship with Dina?”
He frowns. “Why does it matter?”
Damn, I hate it when they ask that. “Her apartment was searched earlier today and we saw pictures of you there. It’s pertinent to our investigation.”
“Oh.” He wipes his hands on a dishrag, his eyes scooting around. “Well,” he says in a quiet voice, leaning forward. “It’s not something I talk about much, or my dad, for that matter, because it hurts him, but Dina’s my birth mom.”
My stomach drops. Like a lead fucking weight. “Your birth mom?”
He nods. “I was adop—sorry. Customer.”
Dammit. Y’all go get your ice cream somewhere else!
“Right—Dina.” Jackson comes back and resumes his position, leaning on the counter. “She’s my birth mom. I was adopted as a baby. Dad told me after my mom died, when I was eight. He thought I should know the truth because I was seeing her every year without knowing.” He shrugs. “We’ve had a relationship since I was nine. Every time we come here, I see her. It’s not much, but it’s nice to have that something, you know?”
Oh, God.
This kid.
This poor, poor kid.
How the hell do you tell someone that their mom just died and they are their only next of kin? That we need him to do a formal identification?
“Sweetie,” I say softly, “Do you have anyone who can cover for you? I need to take you to the police station.”
“Why? Am I being arrested for something?”
“No, not at all. I don’t have that power. I just need you to come with me. Please?”
“I… Sure.” He frowns and grabs his phone. His fingers move across the screen at lightning speed, and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Emily will be here in a second. We run it together. The stall.” He waves around.
Two minutes and three sales later, a midteen girl shows up and grabs an apron from the hook on the door. “Don’t be too long. It’s my night off,” she sniffs.
“I’ll be as long as I need to,” Jackson responds, hanging his own apron up. “I owe you.”
She snorts. “Fine.”
He shakes his head as we walk away. “Sisters.”
“Real or adopted?”
“Does it matter?” he scoffs. “Always pains in the asses. Do you have one?”
I shake my head. “Three brothers.”
“In that case, sisters are wonderful.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back.
Sometimes, this job sucks.
Have you ever had the experience of watching an nineteen-year-boy have his heart ripped out?
You don’t want it. Trust me.
I’d barely delivered the news to him, but I saw it. I saw the very moment that sweet boy’s soul shattered. He screamed that I was lying as tears streamed down his face. Even as two officers came in and restrained him, he kept up his show of denial until the initial hit of pain had left him.
The whole time, I sat there. Just sat on the sofa opposite him. Even as he threatened me. It doesn’t matter to me—I know he didn’t mean it. It was his first instinct: to hurt the person who’d hurt him.
I had a feeling he’d be the kind to fall apart. I had the feeling that Jackson Bullock was a soft soul and the news would break him. It sounds like Dina was all he had for his heritage, the only connection he had with anyone whose blood runs through his veins. It’s almost as if he lived for the two and half weeks in Holly Woods, where he’d see her.
Now? Now, it’s gone.
Now, he has nothing.
He has nothing but the memory of what was, the hope for what could have been, and one hell of a broken heart.
I wish it could rule him out. I wish it means he could be wiped from our suspect list, but even the most cold-blooded killers can be the most devastated in front of the police. There’s no reason to doubt that Jackson’s reaction is genuine, but there’s every reason to believe it’s exaggerated.
Death is no joke. Murder is even less of one. And, until you can be ruled out, everyone is a suspect.
“Tough, huh?” Trent asks, looking up from the papers he’s flicking through. He’s chewing on a Twizzler out of one corner of his mouth. “Sorry you had to do that.”
“I didn’t have a choice. The briefing room was locked,” I mutter, annoyed. I am annoyed. I shouldn’t have been left alone to do that.
The other officers only came in when he kicked a chair.
Either way, Jackson Bullock is now in a cell for his and everyone else’s safety. Taking him to ID the body is but a distant dream unless someone gives him some Prozac stat. That’s the official explanation, but I think they’re lying.
I think they’re testing the fingerprints found at Dina’s apartment to see if they match Jackson’s. The boot prints found outside the store room and on the dusty floor of it are being tested against the shoes he’s wearing, too. At least for size. His relationship with Dina, presence of his fingerprints, and a foot-size match will give them enough to obtain a search warrant for whichever trailer Jackson lives in.
“What about this new girl?” I ask my brother, stealing two candy sticks from his bag.
He reaches to smack my hand but misses. I should know better. Trent concentrates best with some sugary treat in his hand—yet he has the audacity to criticize my cupcake habit.